Sick Day
by In the House
Summary: Takes place 2 weeks after Medical Homicide.  The family that's sick together sticks together!  Huddy, kids, and more Wilson than they would have wanted.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Okay, so this isn't quite a one-shot. Probably a two or three-shot. They always seem shorter in my head than written out; I'm surprised at how much meat there was on the story frame when I started actually writing it down. This is nothing like Medical Homicide, though. Whole story is just one day, though a long one. This is as much as I had time to write down during server down time today; will update when I can. Thanks to all the readers who have enjoyed the "Pranks" world.

(H/C)

Cuddy fought her way up through clouds of sleep, her mind and body unusually and annoyingly slow to come on line. Surely it wasn't morning yet? She opened her eyes and looked at the clock. No, it was 2:30 a.m. Sounds emerged from the monitor, Abby apparently in need of a change. Their younger daughter rarely woke up at night for anything else. Cuddy sighed, motherly duty in direct opposition to a surprisingly strong desire just to go back to sleep. Resigned, she pushed her electric blanket aside to get out of bed.

Wait a minute, her mind protested, making a slightly delayed arrival at the point when she was already sitting up on the side of the bed. You don't sleep with an electric blanket.

Cuddy frowned to herself in thought in the dark bedroom. Why had she thought she had an electric blanket? She didn't think she had been dreaming about them. She twisted around and reached over to put a hand on House.

He was running a fever.

Cuddy sighed again and flipped the lamp on, studying him. In the nearly two weeks since the evidentiary hearing on Patrick Chandler, House had been slowly relaxing, settling back into usual routine, looking better physically as the stress ebbed away. To his relief, things at PPTH were nearly as usual, and most people worked with him as they always had. Cuddy had been worried that he would have a physical reaction to all of it, either during Chandler's campaign or in the sudden release afterward, but he had been doing well, bouncing back from the crisis faster than she had feared he would. He was clearly sick now, though, his hair matted and sweaty around the edges, his sleep somewhat restless, not with dreams but purely physically. She shook him by the shoulder.

"Greg?" It took a few more shakes to get a response. He finally rolled away from her, retreating with an eloquent grumble while still half asleep, and flinched as he rolled onto his bad leg. His eyes opened.

"What the . . . what's wrong?" he modified, seeing her expression.

"You're running a fever," she said. "How are you feeling?" She could already tell somewhat from his eyes, which were weak and didn't have his usual spark behind them.

He felt his own forehead, then hers for comparison, and sighed. "Probably just picked up a little bug somewhere. I told you Jensen wasn't feeling well Friday afternoon; I thought he might have been coming down with something." He grinned, still finding some satisfaction in diagnosing and calling the psychiatrist on that point after all the times that the roles had been reversed there.

"How are you feeling?" she repeated, pushing for details. Abby's murmurs got a little louder, and she stood up and slipped her robe on against the December chill.

He ran a self differential. "Achy, stomach bothering me a little. In other words, it's just a bug. Go on, Lisa. I don't need my diaper changed, unlike Abby, and you can actually do something for her right now."

She pulled the blanket up further around him, then headed dutifully across to the nursery, just in time to hear Rachel, awakened by Abby, snap at her sister. "Shut up!"

Cuddy moved across the room, able to see well enough in the night light. "Rachel, you shouldn't tell people that. It's not polite." She reached over into Abby's crib. "What's wrong, Abby? Time for a change?"

"Mama," Abby replied happily, settling down in her restless floppings now that Cuddy was in the room. Cuddy started changing her diaper.

"Shut up!" Rachel repeated.

"Who did you hear saying that, Rachel?" Cuddy asked.

Rachel laughed. "You!" she answered. "Told Dada. And Wilson. And . . ."

Cuddy flinched. "Well, in spite of what you may have heard me saying sometimes under stress, it's not polite. I apologize." She finished doing up the tabs on Abby's diaper.

"Morning," Rachel announced.

"No, it isn't," Cuddy corrected firmly. "It's the middle of the night. Not morning yet."

Rachel shook her head, digging in her heels stubbornly. "Morning. Dada do the Cr'mas tree."

The Christmas tree. Cuddy shook her head as she remembered. This was Sunday, a day off work, and House had promised his daughters that they could help him put up and decorate the Christmas tree today. He had been looking forward to it himself, sort of a reconditioning exercise, extending the practice of forming new associations that had stood him in such good stead at the hearing and working on exorcising the ghost of Christmas Past. Rachel's second birthday was toward the end of this week, and the project with her father, putting up the tree together with her non-helpful participation, had been planned as a sort of early gift for her. But that, of course, was before he had gotten sick. "Rachel, I don't think he'll be doing that today."

"NO!" Rachel objected immediately. Cuddy reached out to switch the monitor off, not wanting House to hear this and try stubbornly to do it anyway for his girls. She thought he had probably fallen back asleep quickly, but no point in taking the chance of waking him up again.

"Rachel, he's sick, okay? He's not feeling well. He just needs to rest today."

"No," Rachel insisted. "Want the Cr'mas tree!"

"He's sick today. We'll do it another day soon. Maybe tomorrow night. He just doesn't feel like it today."

"No!" Rachel repeated, starting to sniffle. "He SAID."

"Shut up!" Abby stated firmly, adding another phrase to her vocabulary.

Cuddy shook her head. "Abby, don't tell your sister to shut up. Boy, you two are live wires tonight. Come on, time to go back to sleep." Which is what she longed to do herself. "It isn't morning yet."

Rachel kicked the side of the crib. "Want the Cr'mas tree," she sobbed.

"Come here," Cuddy said, resigning herself to the fact that she wasn't going to return to bed within the next few minutes. She picked up Rachel, who nestled into her even while sobbing, then picked up Abby with the other hand and settled into the rocking chair. "It's okay, Rachel. We'll get the Christmas tree, just not today. He's sick. Be nice to him."

"No," Rachel whimpered.

"Shut up," Abby replied.

Cuddy rolled her eyes and gave up reasoning, simply rocking her daughters. They were unusually restless tonight; having this kind of production at a middle of the night awakening was rare. She wondered if they might be coming down with House's bug themselves, but neither had a fever. They were just cranky. She rocked soothingly, letting the motion gradually lull them back to sleep. She hoped they would avoid the bug, but they obviously had been exposed to House extensively already. Trying any measures now would be shutting the barn door after the horse had escaped. It's just a bug, she reminded herself. Even if they get it, it's just a virus. They'll have a lot more. Things have been going around anyway; Marina could have brought it in, or Wilson and Sandra, or anybody. You can't keep them from getting sick in life. It's going to happen sometimes.

But she would never forget the beginning with Abby. Even a routine bug worried her, even knowing that her daughter was doing extremely well and was much more healthy now.

Finally, what seemed an eternity later to her tired body, they were sound asleep again. Cuddy surreptitiously stood, tucked them back in, and then switched the monitor on again and returned to the bedroom herself, not turning off the lamp immediately even though she longed to climb under the covers and hibernate through the rest of December. House was asleep again. In fact, she doubted he had heard Rachel's outburst at all, even before the monitor was turned off. If he had, no matter what he felt like, he would have gotten stubborn at Cuddy's pre-empting of his scheduled day and thrown a comment like a dart across the hall into that conversation. His face was a little flushed now, and he was still restless. She retrieved the thermometer from their bathroom and inserted it between his lips, holding his head still as he tried without fully rousing to move away from her. When it beeped, she extracted it and surveyed the verdict. 102 even.

Probably a virus, as he had said. There were things going around. The clinic had been hopping at PPTH, and even though he no longer had clinic duty, he could easily have bumped into somebody in the hall or the cafeteria. Or from Jensen, as he guessed himself. A day off just doing nothing but resting should fix him up. She did fish out an extra Vicodin from his meds. The acetaminophen would help the fever, and the hydrocodone should help with the aches, although using hydrocodone for flu myalgias was a little like using a cannon to kill a fly. Still, he was already maxed out on the safe dose on NSAIDs, so they couldn't use more ibuprofen or a similar lesser gun. It wouldn't hurt him to add an extra Vicodin at the moment while he was sick; his intake was less and on a far better schedule than it used to be before they got together, and there was safe room for adjustment on exception days. She fetched a glass of water with the pill, then shook him awake again. "Here's an extra Vicodin, Greg. It will help with the fever."

He opened half-glazed eyes and looked at her. "Are the girls okay?" He swallowed the pill with a few gulps of water, flinching slightly as his throat stung.

"They're fine. Neither one of them has a fever; I checked."

"Guess I could have stayed away from them after seeing Jensen Friday. Just in case."

Cuddy laughed. "I would have liked to see you try to avoid your daughters completely over a weekend. That would almost be a war movie. The Revolt of Rachel - and don't forget Abby's shown us she can put her foot down when she wants to. It's okay, Greg. What's done is done, and even if they wind up getting it, they'll have a lot more viruses through life."

"Abby."

"I know." She took the glass back from him. "So what did Jensen have Friday?"

"Didn't have a fever at that point. After I pinned him down and got him to admit it, he just said in general, he hadn't been feeling well that day, progressive through the afternoon, even though he was fine when he came in that morning." House grinned. "So see, I _do_ bring home something from therapy."

Cuddy returned the smile. "I had no doubt; you didn't have to come up with an example to prove it. So did you skip that phase and jump straight to fever, or is this something else?"

He looked away. "I might have been feeling a little off in general yesterday afternoon, especially last night."

"I thought so." In retrospect, anyway. "You ought to notice how you're feeling instead of just trying to ignore it and push on. You're a doctor, after all." She climbed back in bed beside him and switched off the lamp. "Go back to sleep, Greg. Just sleep it off. I'll deal with the girls."

His mumble in reply was already half asleep. She snuggled up next to him - it _was _like having an electric blanket - and quickly fell back over the edge herself.

Her next awakening came an hour and a half later. She felt the bed lurch and heard off-beat footsteps, and her slightly sluggish mind emerged from sleep just in time to register the involuntary grunt House made as he dropped to the floor of their bathroom in front of the toilet. She hauled herself out of bed and hurried in there, stroking his back sympathetically as he threw up everything that had been in his stomach. After she was sure he was done, she wet a washcloth and handed it to him.

"Thanks," he said, wiping off his face. "Yes, I think I've definitely got a bug. Such diagnostic skill went into that differential." He was trying to sound as usual, but hugging the toilet and shivering slightly sort of ruined his effect.

She touched his forehead. "I don't think your fever is quite as high. At least that acetaminophen had a chance to get to work instead of coming back up too soon." He nodded, looking utterly miserable. She was suddenly struck by how much men when they are sick look like little boys. Not that House had the usual past experience there, but it was high time to change that. She could only imagine what John's reaction to illness had been, and she wasn't about to ask. She got her husband a small cup of water, and he took a tentative sip, rinsing his mouth out, then carefully drank the rest of it. "Come on. Let's get back to bed. Unless you want to stay in here, that is."

He shook his head. "Don't think there's anything left down there." He set one hand on the edge of the sink and took her offered hand with the other, pulling himself up. His leg had extremely disliked that abrupt bed-to-bathroom dash, and he put more weight on her than he usually did. Cuddy hid her slight flinch as her own body protested. Once he was back in bed, she picked up the thermometer again. "101.5," she announced. "It was 102 earlier. Sure glad you had that acetaminophen then when it had time to get on board before stage two of the virus hit."

"Check on the girls," he suggested. She nodded, heading quickly toward the nursery, and he heard her comment back to him on the monitor. "They do feel a little warm now. Just a minute." She got out the pediatric tympanic thermometer and checked. "99.8 and 100 even."

He hauled himself upright and limped to the nursery, leaning heavily on his cane. Cuddy met him in the doorway. "I'll get the Infant Motrin. Hopefully we can get on top of it with them faster than with you." She wasn't sure how long House had been running a fever, as she had been sleeping unusually deeply herself, but she had a feeling it had been several hours.

House was giving Abby a quick exam when she returned with the bottle and the dropper. Abby opened her eyes right as Cuddy re-entered the nursery. "Dada!"

Rachel shifted restlessly, waking up herself. "Dada. Morning."

"Not yet," House said. "We're just having designated sick hour. It's an approved family activity."

Rachel ignored his words, as she often did, in favor of her own agenda. "Ch'mas tree!"

House winced. "I don't think so, Rachel. We'll have to do it another day." He would have pushed himself, but he was concerned about the girls now.

"NO!" Rachel insisted. She lashed out in feeble protest, annoyed when Cuddy simply caught her arm and held it out of the way of the approaching medicine dropper. "No! Yuck!"

"Shut up!" Abby stated.

House snickered. "I swear, Lisa, they didn't learn that from me. Cute, though."

Cuddy gritted her teeth. "I know they didn't learn it from you, and it is _not_ cute." He was sagging against Abby's crib, and Abby reached through the bars to touch him. He looked down at her, his expression softening.

"I'm okay, Abby. Just picked up a bug. So we'll all be sick together; how's that sound?"

"No," Rachel insisted.

"Greg, go back to bed before you fall over. I'll rock them back to sleep."

"Ch'mas tree now!" Rachel demanded.

House shook his head. "No, Rachel. I don't think any of us will be up to it today. I think . . ." His expression changed, and in the next second, he departed at a fast limp, obviously heading for the bathroom to throw up again.

Cuddy picked up Rachel along with Abby and sat back down in the rocking chair. "Not today, Rachel. He's sick. You're sick. Another day will be better."

"No," Rachel protested. She was leaning against her mother, though, her defiance oozing out. Clearly, she was not feeling well in general, either. Abby, quieter but with concerned eyes, was looking at the door where her father had made his abrupt exit. "It's okay," Cuddy reassured her. "We're all okay. Just need to take a sick day, and then it will be gone." She shifted in the chair, the girls seeming heavier than usual. Her body must be protesting its lack of complete sleep so far tonight. The girls slowly calmed down against her, reluctantly falling back asleep. Cuddy heard the toilet flush, and a minute later, House appeared in the doorway of the nursery, looking pale. "Go back to bed, Greg," she hissed softly, inserting it as a brief pause in the rhythm of her hummed lullaby. He studied her and his almost-asleep daughters, then turned back around obediently.

Finally the girls were asleep again. Cuddy stood and flinched. She hoped she hadn't pulled something slightly helping House up from the floor earlier, but she definitely wasn't going to mention the possibility to him. She carefully put the girls in their beds again, checking their temperatures - the medicine was already working. Hopefully, with them several hours behind House in the virus course and getting treatment a lot sooner, their fevers would never go as high. Cuddy walked heavily back across to the bedroom, feeling her interrupted night. House was already asleep again with Belle on top of him in full purr, clearly finding him a delightful heated perch at the moment. Cuddy double checked the monitor, set her alarm clock, then climbed back under the covers for some more interrupted rest.

The doorbell woke her up the next time, and she looked at the clock. Three hours that time, though her body felt like it hadn't slept at all. The alarm had been switched off - had she done that in her sleep? She shook her head, annoyed at herself for the uncharacteristic lapse. Lisa Cuddy-House didn't even use the snooze button; she certainly didn't turn the whole clock off without waking up. She looked over in suspicion at House, but he was solidly out, still clearly sick, and hardly looked up to playing games at the moment. Besides, he would have had to climb across her to attack the clock, and between that and the alarm, she surely would have woken up. No, she must have switched it off herself.

She checked House - fever probably hovering around the same but at least no higher - and then stopped in the nursery for a look at the girls. It really was time to get up now, past time even, and the fact that they both were still asleep was its own statement. Their fevers were still present but reassuringly low grade; jumping on the bug immediately had helped. She would give them some more meds with breakfast. Had to make sure everybody stayed hydrated, too. She switched off the monitor to avoid disturbing House and tried to rally her thoughts for dealing with the day.

The doorbell was going off in frantic tintinnabulation now, accompanied by knocks. With a sigh, Cuddy forced her own aching body to carry her down the hall and open the door.

It was Wilson, looking extremely agitated. He surged through the door as soon as it was open. "I've got to talk to House. Right now. It's urgent."

Cuddy tried to straighten up in defiance and winced as she did so. Her whole body was aching after that chopped-up night. "Wilson, this is NOT a good day. We're having a sick day, and . . ."

"Mama!" Rachel's call was urgent enough that Cuddy lost track of berating Wilson and headed for the nursery as fast as she could.

"What's the matter? Oh . . ." She saw as soon as she entered the room. Rachel had just thrown up all over her bed, sleeper, and blankets. "Oh, baby. It's okay, Rachel. I'll get you cleaned up."

Wilson, having already quickly checked the main rooms of the house and found them Houseless, bolted down the hall and entered the master bedroom, then carefully closed the door behind him for privacy, having run his quarry to earth.


	2. Chapter 2

Snippet #2, meant more but this is all I had time to write this morning, and no writing time from here on today or tomorrow. I'll be nice and uncliff the Wilsonites, though. At least from the immediate cliff. Sorry for any medical errors. I did do research.

(H/C)

Wilson hurried over to the bed after closing the door, leaving Cuddy to whatever the kid crisis of the moment had been. He wasn't sure why she was rattled this morning, had been too absorbed in his own worries to pay much attention, but he would rather confess to just one person anyway.

House was asleep, his face turned toward Cuddy's empty side of the bed and half buried in the pillow. Belle stretched along his body like a sphinx. "House!" Wilson called. House didn't respond, but Belle glared at him and gave an eloquent hiss. Wilson ignored her. "House! Wake up. I've got an urgent medical consult." He shook House's shoulder, and House shifted away from him, burying himself even further in the pillow. Undaunted, Wilson rounded the bed and climbed onto Cuddy's side for better face-to-face access. "House! Wake up; I need you." He shook his shoulder sharply.

Slowly the eyes opened. House looked at Wilson with not-quite-focused eyes and blinked. "That's not fair," he protested. "I went to sleep with Cuddy in my bed and woke up with you. I don't like this dream." His eyes dropped closed again, and he pulled the pillow over his head. Belle stood up at the shifting motion and gave an even louder hiss. "Preach it, sister," House mumbled from under the pillow.

Wilson was locked only onto his goal, not even noticing the fever yet. "House!" he insisted, pulling the pillow off. "Urgent medical consult. Come on."

House groaned, his eyes not opening. "Not today. Other doctors."

"I trust your opinion the most."

House sighed. "Symptoms?" he asked, his face still mostly buried in the mattress.

"28-year-old primagravida with primary HSV-2 infection."

That finally got a reaction, House rolling over onto his back, dislodging Belle completely, and opening his eyes. "You gave Sandra genital herpes?" he stated, getting the facts firmly straight.

The oncologist flinched. "I . . . um. . . apparently yes. She got a full STD panel from her gyno, just showed me the results this morning. So what's the prognosis? What's the effect on the baby? What should I DO?" His voice was rising.

House's eyes fell back closed. "Go and sin no more," he quoted.

"I mean NOW! Seriously, come on, House. What should we do medically?"

House finally spoke up without opening his eyes. "She was already pregnant when you brought it home as a stowaway from your conference. So like you said, primary infection during pregnancy. Much better to be already infected before pregnancy and be down to secondary outbreaks. But she's still in the first trimester; better than the later ones. She has time to build antibodies to pass along. Worst of all would be the third trimester. No outbreak yet?"

"Not yet." Wilson wished House would open his eyes, but at least he was finally taking this problem seriously.

"Neonatal herpes is rare, even with an infected mother. Most secondary infections aren't passed to the infant in utero. Primary infections _can_ be passed to the infant in utero, but only about 5% of the time. Sandra is over age 21, which cuts the risk for passing it along the placenta even further. Greatest risk by far of transmission to the infant with both primary and secondary infections occurs in passage through the birth canal. She might need a C-section to bypass that route."

Wilson was trying to latch onto the figure 95%, not the 5%. "What if the baby does get neonatal herpes?"

"That's a lot more serious, _if_ it happens. Prematurity. Possible nerve or brain damage. Possibly death. But really, Wilson, transmission to the baby in utero is rare. They're also much better at treating this stuff now. Immediate acyclovir to the baby after birth helps if the kid is positive."

Wilson groaned himself, his mind spinning. "I can't believe this."

"Of course, you've also got it yourself. You'll need to do treatment during outbreaks, abstinence with active sores. Not that that's a problem for you at the moment, at least with Sandra. It can also be passed orally during an outbreak. Don't kiss your newborn baby if you have active oral sores, you or Sandra either one. It can't be passed through breast milk, so Sandra will be okay nursing. Also. . ." House's expression changed, and in the next moment, he sat up quickly. His leg yelped at the motion, and he gripped it tightly while hobbling quickly to the bathroom.

Wilson followed him, fighting the urge to join House at the porcelain altar. The oncologist's mind was locked onto the sole thought that had possessed him since Sandra showed him the paperwork that morning. His cheating had been far more than a one-time lapse. He had put his girlfriend and his child at risk. Even if the child was okay, Sandra now had the disease. Permanently. There was no cure.

House finished throwing up what was only bile at this point. He wiped his mouth, flushed the toilet, then extended a hand to Wilson, who was standing in shock in the middle of the bathroom. "Give me a hand here."

Wilson extended a hand automatically, then registered the situation for the first time as he started pulling his friend up from the floor. "You're sick. You just threw up."

"You just now noticed that?" House asked.

Wilson put a hand against his friend's forehead. "You're running a fever. You're sweating. You're _sick!_"

"We're all sick today, Wilson. Both the girls, too, and I'm sure Lisa is only a short step behind us. She was moving like she was a little achy last time I was up. Didn't she tell you we were sick when she let you in?" Where _was_ Cuddy, anyway? Surely she would have forestalled a Wilson interrogation of him this morning.

Wilson rewound mentally. "Um, I think she tried to, but I wasn't really paying attention. Rachel needed something right then." He groaned. "Great. Just great. I'm _exposed_ now. I walked into a whole house of sick people. I've been talking to you closely for several minutes. I've probably got it now."

"Wilson, it's not the black plague. We've just got a bug."

"But Sandra is _pregnant_. I can't take this back to her."

House stared at him in disbelief. "You gave her HSV-2, and you're worried about taking home some 24-hour bug?"

"I can't risk exposing her." Wilson shook his head. "When were you exposed to it, do you know?"

"Friday afternoon, I think. Started feeling bad yesterday afternoon." House limped back to the bed and collapsed into it, feeling shaky. He massaged his protesting leg and debated whether Vicodin had any chance at all of staying down at this point. Maybe with omeprazole, too. He wasn't about to try the NSAIDs today.

"So 24 hours about." The oncologist was figuring rapidly. A furious and progressively-shaky-looking herself Cuddy opened the bedroom door just in time to hear his final remark. "I can't go home for at least 24 hours, not until I know I'm safe. I can't give this to Sandra. I'll just have to stay here and help you guys out instead."


	3. Chapter 3

It had taken Cuddy several minutes to get Rachel and her bed cleaned up. Rachel wasn't helping much, simply clingy and wanting to be held at a point when Cuddy definitely needed her hands mostly free to work. Cuddy was also feeling progressively worse herself, her tired body aching, and her whole abdomen in general was hurting. She wasn't nauseated, at least; no, she thought she was just feeling the effects of a chopped-up night and of pulling House up from the floor earlier. But she wished she could take a nap herself. Maybe later, after she'd gotten them settled again.

Abby woke up during all this, of course, but Abby, even not feeling well, would accept verbal reassurance and "just a minute" much more than Rachel would. She lay in her crib watching her mother and her sister. Cuddy finally got Rachel completely changed and then took both the girls' temperatures. Rachel now at 100.2, Abby 100 even. With a sigh, Cuddy got out the medicine to give them another dose, which Rachel fought.

"No!" She struck out with both hands, making Cuddy lose her grip on the dropper, which went sailing across the room.

"Rachel, you need it. You're sick. It will help you feel better."

"Not sick." Rachel buried herself against her mother as Cuddy knelt down to retrieve the medicine dropper. Standing back up with Rachel attached was an effort. "Not sick," Rachel repeated. "Want the Ch'mas tree." If being sick was the obstacle to her goal, she wasn't about to admit to it.

Cuddy achieved her feet and looked at the medicine dropper. She ought to go wash it off. On the other hand, the girls were already sick, and they certainly had exposure to the floor germs already. Did it really matter? The strength of the debate annoyed her into going into the bathroom and washing it off anyway. Come on, Lisa. Being tired and short of sleep doesn't exempt you from good motherhood.

Unfortunately, Rachel apparently thought when they left the nursery that they were heading for the living room for the day's designated project. When Cuddy turned back toward the nursery, Rachel shook her head violently. "No! Ch'mas tree!"

Cuddy deposited Rachel back in her crib and pinned her down, holding the arms still as she delivered the medicine. "Yuck!" Rachel protested.

"Shut up!" Abby told her.

"Abby, don't . . ."

"Shut up!" Rachel replied.

Cuddy shook her head and quickly moved over to Abby, getting another dose of the antipyretic, trying to occupy Abby with something else before the girls wound up in a shut-up-a-thon. Abby saw the medicine dropper coming and made a face, but she didn't fight it as Rachel had. Cuddy recapped the bottle and looked from one of her daughters to the other. "Okay, girls, we'd better go get breakfast. Do you feel like eating, Rachel?"

Rachel shook her head and rubbed her stomach. "Ch'mas tree!"

"No!" Cuddy snapped sharply, startling both girls. Rachel stared at her. They were used to decisiveness and take-charge attitude, but real irritation directed at them from their mother was rare. Cuddy went over to pick her up. "I apologize, Rachel. I didn't mean to snap at you. I'm just tired." She set Rachel on the floor. "Let's go in the kitchen, okay? We need to have some juice at least." She picked up Abby, took Rachel's hand, and headed for the kitchen.

Abby didn't seem interested in food, either. Cuddy didn't push it, wanting the medicine to stay down long enough to get a chance to work. She fixed each of the girls a sippy cup of juice. Rachel, who had been whimpering about the Christmas tree and attached to her leg like a leech the whole while, shook her head as the cup approached. "No."

Cuddy sighed again. "Come on, Rachel. A few sips, okay?"

"Then the Ch'mas tree?"

"We can't do it today, Rachel. Your father is sick, and you're sick, too. You wouldn't enjoy it today anyway. Tomorrow night, maybe, if everybody's better."

Rachel stuck out her lower lip in a pout but took the juice finally. Cuddy had some juice herself, but she wasn't interested in the thought of food any more than the girls were. She had no appetite at all. House probably needed some fluids, too; she poured another glass for him. Carrying Abby in one hand and the juice in the other, walking with difficulty because Rachel was hugging her leg and asking to be picked up (really, if evolution was true, why did mothers still only have two hands?), she started back through the living room, then froze as she looked out the window, her eyes locked onto Wilson's car in the driveway.

_Wilson_. She had completely forgotten him. He was no doubt back there bothering House, who so far seemed the sickest of anybody today.

In a surge of fury, Cuddy shook Rachel loose and blasted down the hall to the master bedroom, opening the closed door just in time to hear Wilson's announcement. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she snapped.

Wilson jumped guiltily, turning around. "I, um . . . I didn't realize . . ."

Cuddy mowed straight over his words, closing the gap for close-range berating. "You didn't realize the family was sick? And WHY not? I told you first thing, plus are you actually telling me you spent 20 minutes with _him_ before you caught on?" She jerked her chin toward House on the bed, who did indeed look like he felt like crap. "You just never noticed because as usual, you're wrapped up in your own agenda. I hope you DO get sick, even worse than he is, and that you enjoy every last minute of it, but you are NOT going to enjoy it here. Get out, Wilson."

Wilson cringed back from the close-up germs. "I was thinking of Sandra. Really! This was important. I needed a consult from him. I didn't know you were all sick."

"I'm NOT sick!" Cuddy insisted, her eyes blazing, her face flushed.

House snickered, and she glared at him. "Just what do you think is funny?"

"Take your temperature, Lisa. You've got it, too. I've been sure of it since the last time we were up."

"No, I don't. I'm just tired. _Not_ sick. I don't have time to be sick." Rachel had joined them at this point, and she and Abby were both staring at their mother, not in fear but in wonder. Cuddy looked madder than they could ever remember seeing her.

"Oh, you don't have _time_ to be sick," House repeated. "Well, that settles it then. All viruses are bound to respect that rule. I guess I was wrong."

Cuddy stalked over to him and pushed the juice at him. "Shut up, Greg." She deposited Abby on the bed, too, and tried to hide the flinch as she straightened back up.

"Shut up," Rachel and Abby echoed in near unison.

Wilson gave a short bark of laughter, and Cuddy wheeled on him. "What the hell are you still doing here? I told you to get out."

The oncologist spread his hands and put on his best helpful-friend face. "Look, I can help you all out. You could use an extra set of hands with everybody sick."

"I'm _not_ sick."

"Besides, I can't expose Sandra to this."

House shook his head. "Wilson, the hospital has been hopping lately, too. It's going around. Do you really think she hasn't been exposed already?"

Wilson's face turned a shade paler. "Oh, God, she works at the hospital. Her job is _dangerous_. What if . . ."

"I'm sure Jensen would have some more technical term for this, but I'll summarize: You're being an idiot! You can't protect her from everything, and even if you could, it would never make up for what you've done already."

Cuddy sat down on the foot of the bed, feeling a bit shaky. "What have you done now?"

Wilson visibly shrank inside his clothes. "Should you tell her, or do you want me to?" House asked. "And I know you'd like Option C, none of the above, but do you really think she won't find out anyway? I'm sure Sandra will tell her herself."

"Tell me WHAT?" Cuddy demanded.

Wilson was silent. House gave him a minute and then went on. "Wilson brought home a stowaway from that conference."

Cuddy understand immediately. "Oh, hell."

"Hell," Rachel repeated.

"Rachel, don't say that."

"Mama . . ."

"I'm a grown-up. When you're grown up, you'll understand. Which particular stowaway?"

"HSV-2," Wilson admitted, avoiding the more common name for it. He sure didn't want to teach Rachel _that_ word.

Cuddy flinched. "That's permanent."

"I know. I just wanted House's advice on the baby."

Cuddy immediately turned to House, raising an eyebrow. House sighed. "_If _the baby gets it, it is very serious, sometimes even fatal, for an infant. But odds are that the kid will be fine." Cuddy turned around to face Wilson again. For the first time since entering the bedroom, she had no words for him. Her look was condemnation enough. He seemed to shrivel another few sizes.

"I can't take her this bug," he pleaded. "I can't take her anything else. Maybe she's already got it, but at least not from me."

"Maybe you could help us out," House admitted, looking at his wife. "Lisa's getting sick, too, and with my . . ." He trailed off, but his hand tightened on his thigh. "Today's going to be hard dealing with both of us plus the kids."

"I'm _not_ sick," Cuddy insisted. House picked up the thermometer from the nightstand and handed it to her in silent challenge. She took her temperature and then looked accusingly at the thermometer. "Only 100. That's not much."

"Somebody was telling me earlier today that as a doctor, I ought to notice how I'm feeling and not just try to ignore it and push on," House pointed out.

"That's _so_ not fair. Turning my own words against me."

"Life's not fair. Come on, Lisa, another set of hands wouldn't hurt. He can shop, too; he's good at that. Do we need any OTC meds?"

She sighed, resigning herself for the moment. "We could use some more Pedialyte. We're almost out, and I think staying hydrated today might be a challenge with the girls. Rachel threw up a while ago, and neither one of them wanted to eat."

Wilson immediately started a mental list. "Pedialyte. Sick stuff. Chicken soup. Sure, no problem. Anything else?" The prospect of doing _something _useful for _somebody_ was a breath of fresh air.

Cuddy and House looked at each other. "Not that I can think of right now." Wilson all but saluted as he turned briskly and headed off on his errand. Cuddy stood up with a slight groan, and House's eyes narrowed as he studied her. "I'm okay, Greg. Just a little achy. Watch the girls for a sec; I'm going to go get the Tylenol." She headed off, returning in a few minutes with the bottle. He never took Tylenol, of course, but it would help her. Rachel had climbed or been boosted into bed herself, and she and Abby were both next to House, pillowed on his chest. Cuddy went around to the far side and climbed in, demonstrating the large bowl she had brought back from the kitchen. "Just in case."

House nodded, feeling pretty sure that one of them and probably more would make use of that today. Cuddy settled back with a sigh and looked at him. She could tell he still had a fever himself, and one higher than the rest of them - those extra hours before starting treatment hadn't done him any favors. The tightness of the lines of his face and the hand touching his leg lightly told their own story, as well. She knew he was working under a four-fold disadvantage with any bug. The aches of the illness would no doubt make his leg worse than baseline; the several trips already of abruptly bolting out of bed to the bathroom would have annoyed it thoroughly besides; the nausea was going to make taking his chronic pain meds interesting today; and pain itself, increasing as the meds wore off, could make nausea worse. He could get into a vicious cycle of nausea and pain that fed itself.

He read her thoughts. "Let me see if this juice manages to stay down, and in a little while, I'll try a Vicodin and omeprazole. I'm not even going to try the NSAIDs today."

"Maybe we ought to switch to morphine injections until you're over it."

He started to protest, then hesitated. "If we do have to, not the sustained-release stuff. Just immediate acting, just enough to take the edge off for a while. Promise me."

"Greg, I'll have Wilson to help me, as you pointed out."

He shook his head. "I'm not checking out on everybody for the entire day when you're all sick, too. Promise me."

She relented, knowing she wouldn't sway him on that. He would just worry more without the reassurance. "Okay, I promise."

He closed his eyes. "Thanks." He grinned suddenly. "Not quite the family day we planned, is it?"

"Ch'mas tree," Rachel protested, but her tone was getting drowsy.

"Shut up," Abby replied.

The girls drifted off, followed by House. Cuddy held herself awake for a few minutes longer, reassuring herself with Abby, watching him - his pain level was definitely up already. Annoyed with herself for giving in to the bug, she finally closed her eyes and joined her family in a nap. None of them even noticed when Belle crept out of the closet, looked around to ensure the coast was clear, then jumped up onto the foot of the bed, rolled herself up into a ball, and was quickly asleep herself.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Not a chapter, sorry (insert image of House and Cuddy kissing :) ). I just wanted to apologize for the delay. We've had 2 different medical crises in the family in the last days, neither of which is over, though they are more stable. Hope to get a chapter up by this weekend. By my mental figuring, the remainder will probably be split into 2 chapters, but even by my mental figuring, they are long. Rest assured, the story is completed mentally and it will get completely posted.

Also, there IS another full-length, in-depth Pranks story. That one, though, just in the process of framing up the support beams right now, is going to take quite a while. I can tell it will require extensive research and work, and I have another project, also full-length and intricate, that I think is going to demand to be written down first. That one not House. But things do cook on multiple burners at once, so the Pranks story will be working up even while I'm giving most of my attention to the other. It's just starting to form, kind of like seeing the shape of a future building without the walls yet, but I can tell that it's full length with a whole lot going on, lots of Jensen, a Cuddy angle, more on Wilson/Sandra. Tentative title at this point is "Three Cases."


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Now that Wilson's cat is out of the bag, I must give a passing salute to one of my favorite House scenes - from the early seasons, of course. The scene where he is in Cuddy's office determining whether husband gave wife herpes or vice versa, then ends up solving his case based on the flung-away gold wedding ring. The spark of that scene, House's deductions, the exchanges between him and Cuddy, her scolding him partway, not seeing where he was going (but willing to trust him as he cut her off, silently indicating that he did have a plan), her true admiration at the end, his epiphany. Classic House. What a show this used to be.

So, Wilson, that's my muse's assessment. "You cheating jackass!" However, the Wilson story is not over (continues much more in the next Pranks tale), and he is neither all bad nor all good but a general muddle of it like most of us.

Thanks for the reviews, and enjoy more of Sick Day. This chapter: Rachel gets a lesson she'll never forget. Next chapter: An arrival by Santa Claus - or is it? Plus in the next chapter an adorable scene between House and Abby. I swear, this fic seemed shorter in my head than on screen. It's still a quickie, but it's got a lot more meat on its bones than I thought.

(H/C)

The familial nap was disrupted some time later by Abby. House even through fevered sleep felt his younger daughter start to squirm, and he was just in time to snatch the bowl and get it into position. Cuddy woke up by the end of things, feeling oddly waterlogged and with her stomach still hurting. "Is she . . .?"

House was rubbing Abby's back soothingly. "It's okay, Abby. Still has a fever, just low grade, though. As far as I can tell; I'm sure mine is higher than hers." He picked up the regular thermometer from the nightstand - the pediatric one was still in the nursery. "Here, Abby, open your mouth for a minute. No, don't bite it. Just close your lips on it." His tone was gentle, but Cuddy thought he still looked like he felt awful.

"How are you feeling, Greg?"

"Peachy," he replied in clipped tones, clearing avoiding providing detail. The thermometer beeped, and he withdrew it. "100 even. Shall we make it a family activity?" he suggested, offering it to Cuddy. She rolled her eyes but took it.

"Yuck," Rachel commented, looking at the bowl.

House grinned, but one hand crept toward his leg before he could stop it. He'd jolted the annoyed extremity again lunging for the bowl. "Yuck. That just about sums today up, Rachel."

"Do the Ch'mas tree now?"

"No," Cuddy mumbled sternly around the thermometer. She pulled it out. "100.6. Next. Open up, Rachel."

Rachel squirmed away. "No."

"Yes," Cuddy insisted, pursuing her across the bed.

Rachel paused with the calculating head tilt that reminded Cuddy so much of House at times. Hard to believe those two weren't biologically related. "Then Ch'mas tree?"

House chuckled. "She _is_ persistent."

"It's called bull-headed, and she gets it from you." Cuddy caught Rachel and inserted the thermometer.

House laughed outright that time. "Well, I'll agree on the first half of that statement."

Cuddy glared at him. "And just what do you mean by . . . Greg?" He was still holding Abby and definitely didn't feel like darting to the bathroom again on his already screaming leg. He grabbed the bowl with one hand instead and added his own deposit to Abby's.

Cuddy sighed and removed the thermometer. "Yuck," Rachel reiterated.

"Yuck," Abby agreed.

"Rachel's at 100.4. Really, you seem like the sickest one of us so far, Greg. Although I'm sure the pain is adding to that." She studied him thoroughly. He was sweating lightly, and she didn't think it was entirely from the fever. "Greg, I really think . . ."

He shook his head. "Wilson will bring back ginger ale. I'll try some of that with a Vicodin first. I don't want to be out of it all day today."

"We could just use a little bit. Just to take the edge off. And ginger ale wasn't on Wilson's list."

Even sick, his eyes could spark in challenge. "He'll bring ginger ale. Want to bet?"

She yielded; what was the point? No doubt he was right anyway. He had taken the tiniest sip of water from the glass by the bed, rinsing the taste of vomit down a bit, and she offered him the thermometer. He sighed and looked away. "Don't make me chase you down like Rachel, Greg."

His lips twisted in a bittersweet smile. "Chasing me down wouldn't be hard."

Guilt stabbed at her. "I didn't mean. . ."

"I know. Cut the guilt fest." He took the thermometer and stuck it into his mouth, removing it a minute later. "100. It's going down."

Cuddy grabbed it before he could put it back up and looked at it herself. "More like 101.5."

"It's _still_ going down," he insisted. "You said it was 102 in the middle of the night."

They all heard Wilson's entry, accompanied by the rustling of several sacks. Laden like a pack mule, he appeared in the doorway. "How's the virus?"

"Virusing," House replied. "Did you bring ginger ale?"

"Of course," the oncologist said, then looked momentarily confused as House shot a triumphant look at Cuddy. "We have Pedialyte, ginger ale, Gatorade, Infant Motrin, Pepto-Bismol . . . " He started unpacking sacks right there in the doorway.

"Don't leave it all in the middle of the floor, Wilson," Cuddy protested, and he started guiltily, quickly resacked his booty, and turned back, retreating to the kitchen. He returned a few minutes later managing to hold two sippy cups, two regular glasses, the Infant Motrin, the bottle of Pepto, and a teaspoon. Cuddy blinked. "Wow. Can't believe you got all that in one trip."

Wilson started dispensing. "Pedialyte for the girls. Motrin for them, Pepto for you, and two glasses of ginger ale. Just what the doctor ordered."

House accepted a spoonful of Pepto but then looked at his fizzing glass. "I think I'd rather have water."

Wilson grabbed the nearly empty water glass from the nightstand and did an immediate about-face. "Sure. Back in a minute." He was back in under the allotted time, offering the glass of water to House. House studied it and shook his head. "With ice. Just a little ice, not too much." Wilson promptly was gone again, trekking back down the hall, and Cuddy, dispensing the Motrin to the girls, snickered. "Greg, behave!"

"What?" He was the picture of innocence.

"You know what."

"I'm actually helping him," House insisted. "Doing things makes him feel needed, less guilty, and more worthwhile. Besides, don't you wonder yourself how many trips he'd make before he finally objected?"

"Right now, a lot, and I don't want to wear out the hall carpet." She trailed off as Wilson returned with a glass.

"Is that okay on the ice? I can add some or take some out, whatever you want." He was as pathetically eager as a puppy.

"That's _fine_," Cuddy said firmly.

House was studying the water, then shook his head. "Think I'll try the ginger ale after all," he said seriously. He switched the glass for the other one he'd set aside on the nightstand. One cautious sip, and then he got his bottles out of the top drawer where they resided while he was in bed and cautiously took only one Vicodin along with one omeprazole, far from his usual effortless dry swallow. When he looked up, Wilson was eying him with concern, a mirror image of Cuddy's expression.

"Wow. You really do look awful."

"Thanks." House took another cautious sip. "It's a new look I'm trying out. I'll break it in at the hospital next week. Scare patients into getting well."

"I mean you _really_ look awful," Wilson persisted.

"Then why did it take you 20 minutes earlier to figure it out?" House asked with an arched eyebrow.

"I apologize. I had my own plan right then. I guess I was pretty locked in on it."

"Just like Rachel," House said, closing his eyes. The ginger ale was holding a conference in his stomach with the pills, deciding whether to take the usual route or use the emergency exit.

"Like Rachel?" Wilson asked, puzzled.

"We had planned to do something else today," House said. "And she's locked in on that."

"Ch'mas tree!" Rachel said, right on cue.

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Great. Thanks a lot, Greg. It had been at least 5 minutes, and _you_ had to remind her." Her tone was sharper than usual, not quite their typical give-and-take, and he opened his eyes again, looking at her with _that_ expression, the diagnostic assessment. "Yes, I'm sick. News flash; we all are."

Rachel shook her head vigorously. "No! Not sick. Ch'mas tree."

"Shut up," Abby stated.

House grinned, giving her another swallow from her sippy cup. "That's my girl."

"Shut up, Abby!" Rachel replied. "Want the Ch'mas tree _now_!"

"Boy, she's charming when she's sick," Wilson noted. His expression changed to wistful as he wondered if he would ever have the opportunity to be in bed with Sandra and their child, even sick, even cranky, even screaming his or her infant head off. "What if I've killed our baby by being a cheating jackass?"

"That sounds like a _definite_ relationship downer to me," House said. Between fighting nausea and fighting pain, his own tone was on the sharp side.

"Gee, thanks," Wilson said morosely. "Are you sure the odds are 95% against in-utero transmission?"

"Latest studies I've read, but that's been several months," House snapped. "If you'd given me notice on today's pop quiz, I would have studied closer to the test."

"That's still 5%, though," Wilson fretted.

"Wilson, shut up!" Cuddy ordered, not even looking at him. She was watching House, and his eyes told her more than he realized or intended.

"Shut up!" Rachel echoed.

"Greg, take the shots. This isn't working. You need something." He was sweating more now, and his hand kept creeping toward his leg.

"Need the Ch'mas tree!" Rachel insisted.

House propped Abby against the headboard on the pillows between him and Cuddy and picked Rachel up, trying again to explain. "Rachel, we can't do it today. We're sick."

"_Not_ sick!" she insisted. "Ch'mas tree."

"We aren't going to do it today," he repeated.

"You _said_!"

He flinched. "I didn't know we'd be sick. We'll do it tomorrow night if we're well by then. Okay?"

"NO!" Sick, cranky, and frustrated herself, let down by her father for one of the few times in her short memory, Rachel pushed away vigorously, arms and legs, as she tried to get free of her suddenly disappointing dad. He tried to hold onto her, and she lashed out harder. One of her feet, with horribly unintentional placement, landed a sharp kick directly on the worst area of his thigh.

House literally yelped, unable to suppress it, and nearly doubled over in the bed, releasing Rachel but even then giving her a slight boost toward the middle of the mattress, not toward the edge. Both hands locked fiercely onto his leg. He was gagging, and Cuddy barely got the bowl there in time as House vomited up what little he'd had in his stomach, including the lonely Vicodin, the only pain med of any kind he'd taken in many hours. His whole body was shaking, and while part of his mind wanted to reassure Rachel, more was focused on just not passing out. The leg had been so bad today already, between excessive abrupt movement and inadequate pain control. That kick had felt like a bullet. Cuddy set the bowl aside and pulled his head across into her lap, holding him. "Wilson, get the keys! Front pocket of my purse; it's in the chair near the door. Locked medicine cabinet in our bathroom with rescue meds and supplies." Abby, propped up against the headboard, reached out to touch her father's hair with concern herself, her eyes wide, too frightened to even cry.

Rachel was frozen in between her parents' legs, staring at her father, horrified. All thoughts of the Christmas tree had vanished.

Wilson could rival Superman's speed when on an urgent mission. He retrieved the keys and quickly opened the cabinet, removing bottles and syringes. "Not the extended release," Cuddy called. "Just the immediate-acting morphine, but enough to give him some rest for a little while. We've got to break the cycle. And diazepam." House's breathing was ragged, sweat soaking through his T-shirt even as she watched. His body was still trembling. "Easy, Greg. We're working on it. Try to keep breathing."

The oncologist whisked back out of the bathroom, even in the urgency taking an extra half second for the alcohol swab. The first needle plunged home, then the second. Cuddy kept holding her husband, stroking his back, and Abby's little hands stroked his hair. Slowly House unclenched, his features relaxing, and he fell over the edge into the drugs.

Cuddy let out a long breath. She gently rolled him back onto his back on his side of the bed, then turned to look at Rachel. "You _kicked_ him, Rachel. In his bad leg."

Rachel's mouth opened and shut twice before any sound made it out. Her eyes were saucers. "I . . . pologize." Her own tone made it clear she understood how inadequate that word was just then. She had never in her young life seen anything near that. She knew House had a bad leg, of course, knew that it hurt sometimes and that it took a while for him to get up in the morning, knew that he walked with a cane, but those were all just elements of who her father was, not individual things she thought about much or measured. She had had no idea how bad the pain actually could be. Part of that, of course, was due to how diligently House tried to hide it from his girls. He had even told Rachel once, when she asked how much his leg hurt, that it just ached some at times, like when she banged her leg on something. He hadn't wanted to worry his daughters.

Rachel scooted up the bed slightly and reached out tentatively to touch him, afraid her very touch would cause him more pain. "I 'pologize, Dada." She peered at him worriedly.

"He can't hear you," Cuddy explained, since Rachel seemed even more worried at the lack of response. "That was strong medicine Wilson gave him, so he's going to take a nap right now." She sighed. "I know you didn't mean it. But that wasn't a pure accident, either. You did strike out at him, even if you didn't mean to hit him in the leg."

Rachel cringed. "I . . ." She touched him again, not expecting a response this time, just wanting to touch him. "I 'pologize." She hugged him suddenly, wrapping both arms around his torso as the frightened tears started. "I . . . kick . . ."

Cuddy just let her cry for a few minutes. She turned to her other daughter to reassure her. Abby was still stroking House's hair, trying to help, her eyes still wide and fighting back tears herself. "He's okay, Abby. He'll be okay. Here, you can hug him if you want." She moved Abby down a bit. Abby wrapped herself around her father, feeling him breathing.

Wilson moved in on the family scene long enough to take House's pulse. "It's steady now," he said softly. He took a pinch of skin on the back of House's hand and let it fall. "He's getting kind of dehydrated, though. I noticed you had a bag of Ringer's in there."

Cuddy nodded. "Good idea. He's been throwing up since the middle of the night, longer and worse than the rest of us. Hasn't really kept anything down. And of course, with the pain added plus his meds wearing off . . ."

The oncologist returned, efficiently starting an IV in the back of House's right hand, as his friend's left arm was buried under his sniffling daughters. Wilson checked flow and then put the bag up on the headboard to drain down.

Cuddy leaned over to hug Rachel with one arm and Abby with the other. "It's okay, girls. He'll be okay."

Wilson was getting time to think about the scene now with the need for urgent action past. "She didn't realize how much it can hurt him."

"I know. Which is a good bit his fault. He bends over backwards to hide it from them." The old, familiar guilt surged in, regular as the tide. "But Rachel has the excuse of being a kid. All those years, I thought he was playing up the pain. I had _no_ idea."

Wilson nodded remorsefully. "Neither did I. I even lectured him all the time about just being an addict."

Rachel's sniffles were slowly dying down. "Rachel," Cuddy said, and her older daughter guiltily looked up at her. "I know you didn't mean that. _He _knows you didn't mean that. It'll be okay. But listen to me. That leg _hurts_ him. It hurts more because he's sick today, and it really hurts more if he gets hit in it. You can _never_ lash out at him like that again without thinking. It doesn't matter if you're tired or sick or even mad at him. Some things are too important to forget, no matter how you feel."

Rachel nodded, her tear-streaked face serious. "I . . . pologize."

"This is important. Do you understand me?"

"Yes." Rachel looked back at her father. "I hurt him." A fresh batch of tears welled up.

Abby had raised her head and was listening to this exchange in her quiet way. Thus, neither Cuddy nor Rachel were prepared for Abby's slap, and unlike Rachel's earlier squirming blows of frustration against her father, this one was definitely aimed. She hit her sister straight across the cheek and was winding up for a second blow when Cuddy captured her hand firmly. "Abby! You don't hit your sister."

"BAD!" Abby snapped. "Dada . . ."

"She didn't mean to hurt him. She was just being careless, and she isn't going to do that ever again now that she knows, are you, Rachel?"

"No," Rachel replied. She hadn't even retaliated against her sister with a slap of her own.

"Abby, apologize to your sister." Abby looked at Rachel stubbornly. "She didn't mean to hurt him. But you can't slap her." Abby held her stubborn expression for a few more seconds - really, she could look amazingly like House herself - then finally relaxed and reached out softly to rub Rachel's arm. She couldn't say apologize yet, and the easier word sorry in that household had been firmly suppressed before the last few weeks and still wasn't used casually in front of the girls.

Cuddy let out a deep breath, suddenly reminded by her aching body that she herself was sick. Wilson gave her a sympathetic grin. "Sure you want kids, Wilson?" she asked him, not thinking.

His eyes fell, the unintentional blow scoring a direct hit. "I _want_ them, but what I want might not make any difference."

"I didn't mean it like that," she said, apologizing herself.

"I know." Her intentions paled against the possible impact of his own actions, though.

"By the way, Sandra _does_ know where you are, right? And that you're staying?"

"Oh, yes. I always tell her where I am these days. Don't want her to get the wrong idea. She knew I came over to ask House's opinion on the baby, and I called while I was out shopping and told her you were all sick and needed me to help out."

Well, that was _one_ way of putting it, not the way she would have chosen. On the other hand, she definitely had needed his steady and trained hands a few minutes ago, when she was dealing with House in a pain crisis plus both girls in the bed with them. She sighed again and looked down at her daughters. They were both hugging their father again but were looking drowsy, worn out not just by the virus but by the strong emotions of the last half hour.

"Rachel will never forget this," Wilson said softly.

"No, she won't," Cuddy agreed. "And she shouldn't. I just wish some of life's lessons didn't have to be so painful." Both to her husband and to her daughter. Cuddy stroked Rachel's dark curls.

Wilson looked at his watch. "It's not far from lunch time, but I don't guess anybody's up to it right now. Feel like some soup?"

Cuddy shook her head. Her stomach was still hurting, but at least the ginger ale was staying down for the moment. "Don't think we'd better push it. They got down some Pedialyte; we'll let that settle and just take another nap, I think."

"Good idea," the oncologist agreed. "You don't look as bad as he does, but you look pretty ragged yourself."

"Thanks," she replied. "And for future reference with Sandra, if you ever think she looks anything less than beautiful, don't tell her that."

"I won't," he promised. "You guys get some rest. I'll make myself useful doing something else." He picked up the bowl, emptied it and rinsed it out in the bathroom, then returned it and left the bedroom.

Cuddy adjusted her daughters, almost asleep against House now, and then stretched out fully herself again. One hand reached over Abby to stroke House's hair, reassuring herself that he was resting now, that the crisis was over. Her aching body pulled her back down into rest before her mind was willing, but even in sleep, one hand stayed on him, and against his side, both of his daughters were carefully maintaining intentional contact, too. The family slept.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews! Yes, while having a lot of humor, this little story also has three more serious plot elements in it. Two of them down; one to go. :) But rest easy, it's NOTHING like Medical Homicide.

(H/C)

Cuddy was unwillingly dragged from sleep by her daughter. Rachel was shaking her arm. "Mama," she whispered - or at least her version of, which wasn't nearly as surreptitious as she thought. Even trying, Rachel had a hard time being quiet and subtle. Clearly, she was attempting to avoid disturbing her father.

House. The thought of him added to Rachel's summons tipped the balance, and Cuddy reluctantly opened her eyes. "What is it?" she asked softly.

"Hafta go potty."

Cuddy slowly sat up, flinching slightly as she did so. She'd definitely pulled a muscle earlier that morning hauling House up from the floor. "Okay, Rachel." She took a quick look over at House and Abby. Both of them were still sound asleep. Cuddy stood, guided her older daughter to the floor, and then propped her pillow in as a bolster just in case Abby rolled over to keep her from rolling off the bed. House blocked her well enough on the other side.

Rachel padded out of the bedroom, heading for the main bathroom which had the potty chair in it, and Cuddy followed. Her own body was aching even more, her stomach unsettled. She obviously hadn't hit the lowest point of the virus yet, which made sense as she was the last one to show symptoms. She looked at her watch. They had been asleep for about 2 1/2 hours. The house was totally quiet. Cuddy closed the bedroom door as she exited, then called softly, "Wilson?" No response.

She got Rachel parked in the bathroom and felt her daughter's forehead. As near as she could tell with her own low fever, Rachel's temperature seemed to be down a bit. Not quite as much heat as before.

_Heat_. "Just a minute, Rachel. I'll be right back." She slipped back into the bedroom and opened the nightstand drawer on House's side. There were the remaining heat patches from the supply he'd bought for the court hearing. Why hadn't she thought of this earlier? Local treatment ought to help the pain somewhat, even if he couldn't keep down the oral meds while he was sick. She opened one, gently uncovered him, and pulled his sweat pants down a bit, applying the patch to the area of his scar, being sure to put it on adjacent healthy skin but close enough that the heat would soak through. On second thought, she took another and put it on herself along her side which was now twinging every time she got up or down. Couldn't hurt, might help.

She tucked her husband back in and studied him. He was resting much more comfortably now, still obviously with a fever, still looked sick, but the lines of his face weren't drawn as deeply. Rest was the best thing for him today. Thank God the acute flare-up of his nightmares caused by Patrick Chandler had settled back down again by this point; if they could get his leg settled down, too, he should start improving. The pain complicated things for him so much when he was sick. From this point, though, she would insist on using intermittent morphine injections, at a lesser dose but enough to help him out and let his energy be devoted toward getting better. Abby, pillowed on his chest, looked sound asleep, too. Cuddy rested her hand on her daughter's forehead. Abby's fever was even lower than Rachel's was. Just a virus. It would come and go, as viruses did. They would all be better soon.

Satisfied that the rest of her family was resting well at the moment, she exited the bedroom and closed the door, arriving back in the bathroom just as Rachel was starting to wonder where she'd gone. She knelt down to wipe Rachel and get her pants pulled back up. "How are you feeling, Rachel?"

"Yuck!" Rachel replied, and Cuddy grinned.

"Me, too. Do you think you could eat something? You need another drink at least. Wonder where Wilson has gotten to." She still hadn't heard a peep from the rest of the house. She stood back up far too quickly. The pulled muscle protested sharply, and her stomach, which had failed to rise with the rest of her, came up in a hurry a few seconds later, intent on catching up. Cuddy dropped back down in front of the toilet and threw up, feeling miserable. Damn viruses. With all the advances of medicine, they still had not defeated the simple 24-hour bug.

Rachel patted her arm. "Okay, Mama?"

Cuddy wiped her mouth off and flushed. "I'm fine, Rachel. It's just a virus, like the rest of us have. We're all sick today, but we'll probably be better by tomorrow." She hauled herself back to her feet more slowly this time. "Come on; let's go get a drink. We need to keep the fluids up."

The kitchen produced evidence of Wilson, though not the oncologist himself. The room had been cleaned thoroughly, even the burners on the stove spotless. Wilson himself, though, obviously wasn't here, nor was there a note. Maybe he had gone back to Sandra where he belonged. Cuddy got out some ginger ale for herself, another cup of Pedialyte for Rachel, and sliced up a banana. Rachel managed to eat some of the banana. Cuddy stuck with ginger ale, still feeling nauseous. She'd get some more Pepto once they were back in the bedroom where that bottle was.

Rachel had been very quiet since she had woken up, and not once had the Christmas tree been mentioned. Instead, she looked unnaturally serious. "Mama?" she asked.

Cuddy took another sip of ginger ale. "What is it?"

"Dada . . . get better?"

"He'll get better, Rachel. Just like the rest of us. It's only a virus."

Rachel shook her head vigorously. "No!" She slapped her own leg for emphasis.

"Oh, you mean his leg? He should be feeling a lot better when he wakes up. It was very bad today even before you kicked him, but that medicine Wilson gave him will help. It hurts worse when he's sick, and he couldn't take his medicines he usually does because he keeps throwing up. He'll get better now with the shots."

Rachel shook her head again, getting impatient. "No. Get better?"

The light bulb went off in Cuddy's mind, even if it was a low-wattage bulb and flickering somewhat today. Rachel was asking about his leg, not just today but in general. Cuddy sighed, not feeling up to this conversation right now. "No, Rachel. It's never going to get better. It will always hurt him."

Her daughter looked at her, blinking back tears, resisting crying for more information fishing at the moment. Odd to see Rachel, the ever-active, impulsive one, sitting here quietly seeking data to further analyze a situation. "Not ever?"

"No." Cuddy suddenly felt tears welling up herself. How she wished, like Rachel, that something could just make it better.

"How . . .?"

"You mean what happened?" Rachel nodded. Cuddy scouted through her aching mind to try to figure out how to explain an infarction to an almost-2-year-old. "He was very sick a long time ago. Very, very sick. And most of him got better, but his leg didn't. It was too sick to get better all the way like it was before."

"But he . . . fix . . ."

Cuddy gave a bittersweet smile, remembering House telling his daughter once that he "fixed sick people" when she asked what he did at work. "He can fix a lot of people, Rachel. But not all of them. We can't fix all of them. I wish we could. He fixes more than most of us can, but no, he can't fix his leg. Nobody can."

Rachel was still fully serious, absorbing this. "He hurts?"

"He always hurts some. Today was very bad, even before you accidentally kicked it. What you saw . . . it doesn't usually hurt like that. When it does, we do have some strong medicine. That's what Wilson gave him. That will help. So it hurts more sometimes than others, if he's tired or he's had a long day or he's sick. But it always hurts him some. That's why you have to be careful with him. You can't forget, not ever again. Okay?"

Rachel nodded so vigorously that she almost spilled her sippy cup. "Okay. I pologize."

"He knows you didn't mean to hurt him, Rachel. Today was a bad pain day anyway." Cuddy suddenly saw a potential ally. "He really should have taken the stronger medicine before he did. But he gets stubborn sometimes." Rachel nodded wisely. "Sometimes he doesn't want to take his medicine, even if he knows he needs it and it would help."

Rachel perked up, sensing a mission in need of her invaluable assistance. "We make him."

Cuddy grinned. "Why don't you ask him? Not always. He has a lot of different medicine. Lots of different sizes for different days. But when it's really, _really_ hurting him - watch his face and how he moves, and you can tell - and he isn't getting it himself and is just being stubborn, ask him if he'd take his medicine for you."

"Okay." Rachel looked back toward the bedroom. "I tell Abby. Careful." She puffed out a little, taking the elder's responsibility to educate her younger sibling.

Cuddy laughed and flinched slightly as her side pulled. "I think Abby got the message today, too. Abby can learn vicariously."

"Vic . . ." Rachel stalled completely at the word and looked to her mother for help.

Cuddy sighed, suddenly at the limit of her scant energy of the moment. "Rachel, let's talk more sometime when we're not sick, okay?"

Her daughter looked disappointed but nodded reluctantly. She still hadn't mentioned the Christmas tree, either. Maybe today would be a very good, though difficult, general lesson for her, showing her that some things are more important than her understandably single-minded 2-year-old perspective. "Do you feel like taking another nap?" Cuddy asked hopefully.

"No," Rachel objected. Well, she was still only two. Maturity doesn't come overnight. Even small doses at this age are milestones.

"Why don't we read a book, then?" Cuddy was too tired and achy to come up with her own words in answer to questions any more this afternoon.

"Okay." Rachel stretched out her arms, and Cuddy lifted her out of the high chair with a wince and set her on the floor. Rachel took off at a sick trot - not quite her usual impulsion, but still not a walk - toward the nursery. By the time Cuddy got there, Rachel had picked out a book and was waiting. She extended it to her mother and tapped the Christmas tree on the cover. "Ch'mas tree. Later."

Her mother smiled. "That's right, Rachel. Once we're all well, I promise, you and your father will pick out the tree and decorate it. But we have to get well first." Rachel nodded in agreement. "Okay, come here." Cuddy settled into the rocking chair, and Rachel scrambled up into her lap. "The Night Before Christmas. 'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse."

Rachel snickered. "Belle."

"Yes, Belle would make sure no mouse was stirring. The stockings were hung by the chimney with care . . ." Cuddy's mind wandered as she read on through the poem. Never in her childhood had Christmas been such a purely positive family time of anticipation as mentioned in the poem. Certainly it would be an understatement to say it never had for House. Suddenly she was almost grateful for Rachel's innocent excitement about the tree and about the approaching holiday. Such a contrast this year to long past ones. New memories. New beginnings. They could redefine the tradition together as a family right now, starting this year, and even a 24-hour virus was simply a trivial blip in that road. They were _happy_ now. "When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter . . ."

The heavy thump at the front door startled both of them. A series of sliding bangs followed, as if something the size of a sleigh (not miniature) with eight reindeer (not tiny) were trying to gain access into their house. Rachel perked up immediately and slid off her mother's lap. "Santa!" She raced out of the room.

Cuddy closed her eyes and sighed. "Wilson," she corrected softly. She started to pry herself out of the rocking chair.

"NO!" Rachel's commanding voice lifted Cuddy the rest of the way out of the chair. She hurried to the front of the house, then stopped, her eyes disbelieving.

Most of the open front door was taken up by a Scotch pine. Wilson was on the other end, trying to push it through the door, but the tree, which had to have been one of the larger ones on its lot, was a bit large for ingress and was stuck part way. The oncologist had stopped pushing only because Rachel had grabbed the top of the tree and was attempting with all her force of personality to push it back out, of course accomplishing nothing, which just made her madder.

Cuddy closed her eyes, then reopened them. Not a dream, and she wasn't back in her bed. "Wilson, what the hell are you doing?"

"What hell doing?" Rachel echoed.

Wilson stared at her, bewildered at his reception. "It's a Christmas tree," he explained, as if this vital point had somehow been missed.

"I _know_ it's a Christmas tree. What is it doing stuck in _my _front door?"

"You were going to go get one today and set it up. That's what Rachel was disappointed about. So since you guys are all sick and can't, I thought I'd help you out and . . ."

Cuddy silenced him with the administrative glare. "You thought _you'd_ do it for us instead." She sighed again. "Wilson, did it _ever_ occur to you that the process of doing that _as a family_ is what Rachel was looking forward to, not just having the completed tree here? We don't _want_ the fully-assembled version suddenly in our living room. She and Greg were going to go to the tree lot and pick one and then set it up together. A good memory for her and a _replacement_ memory for him. They need to do it together. That was the whole _point_ of it."

Wilson deflated like a balloon, all the air whistling out of his good intentions, leaving them limp. "You don't want the tree?"

Cuddy looked down at Rachel, who hadn't yet stopped trying to push it back out the door, undeterred by her complete lack of progress. "Does it look like she does? Rachel, do you want Wilson to give us a tree and him set it up today instead of us doing it later?"

"NO!" Rachel snapped. She redoubled her efforts against the pine. "Bad tree. Want Dada. Later. Sick today."

Wilson looked mournfully at his refused gift. "I picked it out just for your living room."

"It would probably look just as nice in yours. Thanks for the thought, but it was a wrong thought. Go put it back in or on or however it was in your car. Take it home to Sandra later." The oncologist sighed and picked up the trunk, dragging it backwards. The sudden progress after all her effort nearly threw Rachel's balance off, but she caught herself and pushed with vigor on the top of the tree until it was clear, then slammed the door.

"Bad tree!" she said to her mother.

Cuddy suddenly started laughing; she couldn't help it. She sat down on the couch, dissolving into un-administrative-like giggles, and Rachel climbed up in her lap. Outside, Wilson dragged the tree back out to the driveway to resume the laborious task of tying it again to the roof of the Volvo.

(H/C)

House opened his eyes. He felt slightly foggy, the memories creeping back one slow piece at a time. His leg. Rachel. The pain. He couldn't remember anything beyond the pain; they must have given him some morphine. He quickly looked toward the clock, then relaxed slightly. He'd had a good nap, but he hadn't checked out for the whole rest of the day. Cuddy had kept her word.

Abby's eyes were open, looking back at him. He could tell she hadn't just woken up; she was simply lying there watching him. The rest of the bed was empty. "Hi, kid." He reached over right-handed to brush her forehead and blinked in surprise at the tubing which followed him. He was hooked up to an IV. His eyes tracked the tubing to the bag on the headboard. It was nearly empty and was probably the explanation for why he needed to use the bathroom.

Abby reached out to touch his face, mimicking his gesture. "Okay?" she asked, the blue eyes large with concern.

He sighed. Great. He had had a full pain attack right in front of his girls and probably scared them senseless. "I'm fine, Abby. Feeling a lot better." He was, actually. Stomach still somewhat uneasy, and he could tell he still had a fever, but the snarling monster of the pain was down to just routine growls rather than the escalation of attack it had carried out all day, even before Rachel unintentionally kicked him.

She didn't quite look convinced. He leaned over to kiss her. "I"m okay, Abby. It was hurting. They gave me some medicine, and it's not hurting as much now. I promise; I'm feeling better." He slowly, carefully sat up and removed the IV line from his right hand. "Need to go to the bathroom, though." He studied the situation, his mind still tracking a bit laboriously. Cuddy and Rachel gone. Door closed. They must be doing something with Wilson in the rest of the house and hadn't wanted to bother him. He looked back at Abby. "You stay still, okay? I'll be back in a minute."

He stood up and wavered, his muscles still a bit weak in reaction to the screaming spasm that had seized them before, and the morphine was still having some effect, too. Abby saw the waver and started crawling to the edge of the bed, reaching out as if her 1-year-old efforts would stabilize him. "Hey, watch out. You're going to fall. I'm okay, Abby. Just takes me a minute to get my land legs under me." She achieved the edge and reached out to him, not looking at all like she intended to stay still. He sighed. He was still feeling shaky enough that he didn't think it was safe to pick her up. "Okay, then. You can come to the bathroom with me. But you'll have to crawl, got it? Wouldn't it be easier to just stay on the bed?" Abby looked back at him in stubborn silence, and he braced himself with his right hand on the nightstand and carefully lowered her to the floor with his left.

She did indeed follow him to the master bathroom, crawling all the way but carefully staying out of interference with his slightly wobbly steps. He achieved his goal with a soft sigh of satisfaction, leaned his cane against the sink next to the door, then moved over to the toilet to pee. Sweet relief. He wondered whose idea it had been to start him on IVs; he hadn't been in _that_ bad shape. He flushed and moved over to the sink to wash his hands. "Okay, Abby. Back to the bed now. Wonder where your mother and sister are?" He turned, and his stomach turned with him and went on to make a complete flip. He barely made the turn back to the toilet in time. Dropping to his knees and glad of the morphine that still muffled his leg's yelp, he threw up yet again, even though there wasn't much down there to throw up. On second thought, maybe the IV hadn't been a bad idea after all.

"Dada?" Abby asked, concerned.

"Mokay." House tried to spit the last of the taste out and then wiped his mouth and flushed. "Just got a virus today. We'll all feel a lot better tomorrow." He turned to face his younger daughter. She was pulling herself up on the handles of the under sink cabinet, still looking at him worriedly. "I'm okay, Abby. I promise. It's nothing serious; just some bug."

Sitting here on the floor, legs stretched out, his body leaning halfway against the toilet did raise a new problem, though. His cane was out of reach. Even if it weren't, his muscles were still a bit slack from the morphine and most likely diazepam, too. He wasn't sure how he was going to get back to his feet again, not without assistance. He sighed, remembering Cuddy this morning and then Wilson hauling him up from the floor. Even undrugged, he had needed some help then. But he was in here alone, the bedroom door closed, and a concerned 14-month-old who was undersized even for her age his only company. By habit, he sought refuge in sarcasm. "Well, I guess you and I are it, then. Want to give me a hand up, Abby?" He extended his right hand toward her.

Immediately, she let go of the cabinet handles and walked toward him, her own hand reaching out to his as she closed the few steps between them.

House stared, his heart suddenly leaping into his throat, his eyes welling up. Abby, their miracle child, the severely premature infant, whose first months of life had been such a fight. She had consistently lagged somewhat behind on the developmental markers, although the pediatrician had assured them that she would probably catch up, as most surviving premies did after the first couple of years. She had never yet walked. Never. Not even a near-miss. But she was _walking_ to him. Even now, her steps were shaky, but her determination was there. Her father had clearly, by both words and gesture, summoned her, and every ounce of willpower in her small frame answered the call.

She tottered into his arms, her hand grasping his, and he pulled her in the rest of the way, hugging her tightly against his chest, feeling hot tears track down his cheeks. All his life, he had made fun of those parents who made a federal case of each milestone, as if no child ever before had managed such sterling accomplishments as sitting up or saying a word or taking a step or using the toilet. But right now, the only thing lacking from this moment was Cuddy. He wanted to share it with her. He wanted to share it with every person he knew. So much pride was swelling up that he knew he was going to rupture any moment, and he didn't care.

Abby reached up, touching his moist eyes. "Okay?"

His smile would have lit an auditorium. "I'm _wonderful_, Abby. And so are you. Everything's okay." He hugged her again tightly. "That's my girl."


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Thanks for the reviews! Almost done, another one or two chapters is all. Just one more main plot element to deal with. Of those getting resolved in this story, anyway.

(H/C)

Cuddy finally stopped laughing on the couch. She couldn't help it; that maneuver had been _so_ Wilson, full of good intentions but also full of confidence that he knew best what was needed. Had he stopped to think, he would have realized that not only had the girls never helped House select and put up a tree before, but House himself never had. The delayed Christmas in January last year, still so close to the near-fatal accident and Abby's fight, had been more a homecoming, and they had had to settle for a small artificial tree, as the tree lots were all closed. This year was the first year that the family was truly celebrating Christmas as everybody else did, a fact that Wilson knew, and every single step of that celebration consequently was something to be treasured.

But of course, Wilson thought they simply needed a substitute tree putter-upper. He was a good friend and had been there when it counted earlier, but Cuddy wished he would stop and think sometimes - or at least ask - before he charged off on a decision. Of course, she had her own track record in the past. She cringed, remembering some of the decisions she and Wilson had participated in together for House's "benefit." She was trying to change, though. Wilson was trying himself, but he was also strung out today with Sandra and had reverted straight to old habits under the pressure.

Sandra. Cuddy sighed. With the roles reversed, she wasn't sure she could ever forgive Wilson herself for endangering the life of her child through pure cheating and stupidity (what doctor, even drunk, doesn't know to use a condom?). She hoped that the baby would be full-term, healthy, and okay. She didn't think Wilson and Sandra had any chance otherwise. Of course, NICUs could work miracles these days, as they had with Abby. But there was a lot of difference between having your child there through some other person's idiocy and irresponsibility and having your child there through your own.

Abby. House. She ought to go check on them; that IV bag would be running out, too. Cuddy stood up, catching one glimpse out the window as she turned of Wilson wrestling the tree back on top of the Volvo. "Come on, Rachel. We need to check on the others. We need another round of medicine for everybody, too."

"Yuck," Rachel commented, but she slid off the couch and headed back toward the nursery, trying to tip-toe, which made Cuddy grin. Rachel simply didn't do discretion well. Cuddy followed her, resisting the impulse to duck into the bathroom on the way and hoping she wouldn't need to soon. The ginger ale in her stomach wasn't sure it wanted to stay there. Damn virus.

The bedroom was empty. Cuddy and Rachel both stood for a moment in the doorway in surprise. Neither House nor Abby were to be seen, although he had disconnected the IV. "Greg?" she called.

"Lisa! Come here!" The urgency of his call from their bathroom lent wings to her aching body, and she beat Rachel getting there. House was on the floor beside the toilet, legs stretched out, back propped against the far wall. Abby was in his arms. She could still see tear tracks down his cheeks.

"Greg!" She dropped to her knees beside him, reaching out and uncertain if she should inspect him or Abby; which one was injured? "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?" He looked momentarily confused. "Nothing. Everything's fine. Everything's great. Lisa, Abby walked!"

She stared at their small daughter. "She walked?"

He nodded. "Just a few steps, from the sink to me. Wobbly, but she made it."

Cuddy felt her own eyes welling up. She took Abby from him and hugged her tightly, kissing her chestnut hair.

Rachel, meanwhile, had her own agenda and was pursuing it with typical singlemindedness. She put a hand on House's leg very gently - right over the heat patch, as it happened, and she jumped. "I 'pologize, Dada." She was suddenly near tears herself. "I 'pologize."

House pulled her up into his arms after passing off Abby. "It's okay, Rachel. I know you didn't mean to. No big deal. It's all better now." Rachel gave him a dubious look. "Really. I'm perfectly fine."

Cuddy took time out from kissing her daughter to glare at him. He was going to have to understand that the charade was irrevocably over. To pretend otherwise would only frustrate and worry his daughters more. "That's not going to work, Greg."

He looked from Rachel to her, also remembering Abby's clear concern when he woke up. "How bad was it?"

Cuddy sighed again. He knew how bad it was from his own perspective to hit 12 on the 1-10 pain scale; he was simply asking how obvious he had been. "It was bad," she confirmed. He looked at Abby, then back at Rachel, his earlier enthusiasm temporarily displaced. "Rachel had a few questions for me later, too."

His eyes fell to the floor. "Great. So now they know that . . ."

Cuddy was suddenly mad. "That _what_? However you were going to finish that sentence, this _isn't_ going to reflect on you as a father. They aren't going to want to trade you in for a better model. They just know that you have a bad leg that genuinely _hurts_, sometimes even severely. So what? It's the truth. They were bound to get more of the details sooner or later."

He still felt like he had failed them somehow. Rachel was looking at him as if trying to get a pain reading at the moment. She would turn two this week. For her birthday, he had taught her to be worried about her crippled father. "But I can't . . ."

Cuddy shook her head. "Greg, you can do anything that matters. The stuff you can't do doesn't matter to them. Really. And you _can_ do a lot, just not on bad days. You've been building snowmen with Rachel after that big storm in November. You'll get the tree set up once we're not all sick. You can do plenty of things with them."

Rachel abruptly perked up. "_Bad _tree."

House looked puzzled. "Bad tree?"

Cuddy grinned. "Wilson decided that he needed to go buy us a tree and set it up himself."

House rolled his eyes. "He thought we just wanted a tree?"

"Yes."

"He's on edge today because of Sandra. Doing things makes him feel less guilty."

"I know. Do you think we should have accepted his completely-installed tree anyway?"

"No. Rachel and I are doing that together. I promised." He hugged Rachel again.

Cuddy reverted to the original topic. "So Abby walked?"

House smiled again. "Yes. I had just finished throwing up, and then I realized that I couldn't get up."

Cuddy was immediately concerned, her attention momentarily diverted. "You can't get up?"

"Morphine. Probably diazepam, too. My muscles aren't quite working right yet. Anyway, that's not the point. So Abby was over by the sink; I'd set her down off the bed because she was trying to climb off with me, and she was going to fall. I stretched out my hand and asked her to help me out, and she _walked_ over to me." He shuffled Rachel over to his left side and took Abby, setting her on her feet between him and Cuddy. "Come on, Abby. Walk a few steps again. Let's show Mama what a big girl you are."

Abby smiled back at him and sat back down, snuggling up to him. "Dada."

"Oh, come on. Show your mother." He set her back up, and she promptly sat back down.

Cuddy laughed. "She was trying to help you, Greg. She doesn't see any point in just doing it for no reason."

He pushed their daughter at her. "Here, move her back over." Cuddy shifted across the floor to the other side of the room, next to the sink, and stood Abby on her feet. House stretched out his hand. "Come on, Abby. Give me some help here." Abby looked at him, then at Cuddy, her skeptical expression _so _House that Cuddy laughed even harder. Abby clearly could distinguish between a legitimate call for help and being set up. House sighed, then widened his eyes and tilted his head slightly, putting on an imploring expression. "Come on, Abby. Do it for me. Pretty please?"

Abby studied him, then slowly let go and took off. A few wobbly steps later, she collapsed into his arms. He hugged both of his girls tightly. Cuddy was crying herself now. Their little girl. Their miracle baby. She was getting stronger.

Wilson, still slightly out of breath from tree wrestling, entered the bedroom, then appeared at the bathroom door. He studied the scene; the entire family in the floor, House and Cuddy both with tears in their eyes. "Is, um . . . are you guys okay?"

"We're wonderful," Cuddy replied. "Wilson, Abby _walked _a few steps."

"Twice," House added.

"Wow. She's getting better. Going to catch up with all the others before you know it." He looked at Abby and suddenly remembered his own issues. "They can do a lot these days, even with the ones who get a rough start."

He was clearly trying to convince himself, and House obligingly stepped in to attempt to distract him. "Okay, Abby, let's show Wilson. Walk back across the room, okay?" Abby, nestled contentedly against her father again, didn't even move. House extricated her and stood her back up. "Walk to Wilson now."

Wilson knelt, holding out his arms. "Come here, Abby."

She promptly and deliberately collapsed, snuggling back against her father. "No," she said clearly.

Cuddy laughed. "Don't take it personally, Wilson. She didn't want to show me, either."

"Don't like being a circus monkey, do you?" House asked his daughter fondly. "She only tried it in the first place because I needed her."

"You needed her?" Wilson asked. How much practical help could a 1-year-old be?

"Yes. I'd just finished throwing up, and . . ." He broke off as Wilson started laughing. "What?" he asked, slightly annoyed.

"I'm just imagining this story being told through the years. Great milestones in life. How my daughter first walked: I had just finished throwing up, and . . ." Wilson shook his head. "Didn't mean to interrupt you. Do go on; I want to hear the rest of this."

"I couldn't get back up," House continued. He short cut the immediate concern on Wilson's face. "I am _fine,_ damn it. Somebody shot me full of a strong narcotic and a muscle relaxant, and they're just doing their job. Nobody else was around but Abby, though. So I stretched out my hand and asked her to give me a hand up, and she definitely was willing to try." He smiled down at his daughter.

Cuddy abruptly was informed by her aching body that they were all on the floor and had been for several minutes. "Speaking of getting up, we need to. Even sick, there are more comfortable places to be." She hauled herself to her feet, then picked up Abby. "Move over and give your father some room, okay, Rachel?" Rachel immediately retreated to the middle of the room, watching with concern.

_Watching_. House sighed again. They were all watching him, assessing, both of his daughters included. They would never see him quite the same again. He had become fragile in their eyes. He tried to push himself up, bracing on the toilet, but his muscles still weren't going to do it. Wilson stepped forward, offering a hand, and House reluctantly took it. He wasn't kidding about still feeling shaky; the oncologist could tell that by the amount of assistance needed to haul himself back to his feet. With House finally up, Cuddy handed him his cane. "Thanks, Wilson," she said. She definitely wouldn't want to try that herself right now with her pulled muscle; there would be no way to hide the flinch from House. She didn't want him to feel guilty for something he couldn't help.

Wilson nodded. "Any time. Anybody feel up to soup?"

House and Cuddy exchanged glances. Not really. The silent message was read loud and clear. "You need more ginger ale and Pedialyte, though," Wilson urged. "And another round of meds." He turned and started off toward the kitchen on his latest mission.

House looked around the bathroom. "I declare this family meeting adjourned - at least to a more comfortable spot. So moved." Carefully, still feeling some effects from the drugs, he limped forward, leaning on his cane. His wife with his daughters followed, all three watching his steps.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Fie on FF dot net, who is having even more problems today than they have been the last few weeks. Can't reply to a review, can't even SEE reviews right now (though they come by email), PMs moody, doesn't want me to communicate with you at all. As my mom was fond of saying, PHOOEY!

Okay, thus the existence of this chapter. Probably a few others than the nonrepliable reviews have wondered, though, so here you have a few administrative notes for everybody:

1. House's pain/relationship with girls. I agree this is a major struggle for him, but also agree that it was bound to get more on the table anyway. He, of course, doesn't realize that it truly doesn't make any difference to the girls (other than pure concern). It isn't a "failure" to them. For him, though, this will be something of an ongoing battle he'll have to struggle with.

2. Jensen. Nobody will be bugging him in this story (he's sick, too), although House has a nice "not bugging him" moment of introspection coming up. But my muse had already concluded that a short (shorter than this one, 2 chapters most) Jensen fic is warranted in between Sick Day and Three Cases. That will take place soon, fic time line speaking, but everybody has to get well first. But yes, Wilson and House both need to get a few things on the table. Not that either of their major issues of the moment is going to get resolved just in a session. But they do need to talk about it.

3. Where do we go from here? Must admit, it is fun to hear readers speculate. I will tell you that Wilson/Sandra's baby is one of House's three simultaneous cases in Three Cases. Also that Patrick Chandler's formal trial, while the case is mentioned, will NOT be in that fic. And that's as many spoilers as you get. Three Cases will be another long and involved story.

4. Christmas/Hanukkah. The Cuddy-Houses do observe both, but the emphasis is so much on Christmas this year for them because House is using this as a reconditioning exercise. He has so many past bad Christmasses through childhood and lonely Christmasses through adulthood. To him, remember, holidays epitomize isolation and the illusion of family, and Christmas, being such a kid-geared holiday, was especially used by John to crush him. Thus, he and Cuddy had really been pushing it this year in all aspects, following the events of Medical Homicide and how much the reconditioning strategy helped at the hearing, in an attempt to lay some of his Christmas ghosts, and this honestly is the first year they have been able to do this as a family. December last year, still in accident recovery, Abby still in NICU, House still overcoming residual brain injury effects, was not the greatest month for them. So this year was their "official Christmas with all trimmings as a family" inauguration year. That was before everybody got sick, but getting sick is just a blip on the radar. They'll all be better soon.

5. Sandra/herpes. No, she did not have this previously (although that would have been an interesting twist). There is no question that this came from that conference and courtesy of Wilson.

6. To all who have asked about my family, thanks. Things are still rough, but more generally rough than acutely rough for the moment. A few of these health issues are going to extend over long courses.

Thanks for all the reviews, and it is fun to hear the speculations. Also fun to see it working out myself piece by piece. I'm only along for the ride myself on the Pranks coaster, just in a car a few ahead of the readers on the track.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Something came up that I feel strongly enough about that I'd like to enlist my readers as eyes out there. Not that I think it's likely to happen, but just in case. Now that the possibility was brought up, it worries me. Regarding the chance of other stories in the Pranks universe not written by me, there will never be any - at least no authorized ones. I will never give anybody permission to use this world in their writing, and should any of you run across any stories that "borrow" it anyway without asking, I'd appreciate knowing. I have given somebody permission to translate one of the other stories (non Pranks, just a one-shot), into French, but even translation permission for anything in the Pranks world would be refused. I don't want Pranks that out of my control, in a language I can't read.

The reason is that this series is far too close to me. I've said before that the character of Jensen is based on my mother. She was always my best friend, but the mind is gone at this point. Only the body remains, and only I visit her regularly anymore. In a way, she lives on as she was in my writing, mainly at the moment in Pranks and in one other significant WIP (that's the one I hope to finish out next and ultimately publish, and I do mean actually publish). But no other author out there knew the original; thus, nobody else could ever quite hit Jensen right, with Mom's basic flavor mixed with some of her quirks and a couple of his own individual twists, and it would be beyond painful to me to see it done slightly off. With all due respect to the other talented authors out there, it wouldn't work.

It had honestly never occurred to me that anybody else might try to write a Pranks story or a spin-off from this 'verse, but now that it's been mentioned, if anybody ever does, I would appreciate knowing. I know it has been done with a few other AUs in fanfiction, but with the Pranks world, I would object to the point of asking for complete removal from all sites.

Also one further point. Like I said, the trial of Patrick Chandler does not occur in Three Cases. In fact, it hasn't even taken place yet at the time of that story; big criminal trials do often take an amazing amount of time to get heard, can even be over a year. So for all the "What about the formal trial" wonderers, the answer is, "I don't know." It might well occur in something past Three Cases. It might just be mentioned in summary in a later story (as opposed to just mentioning that the judicial ball is still rolling, which is what is mentioned in Three Cases). It's up to my muse, not me. But there will be no "just throw in a little story on this meanwhile, why don't you?" I could not possibly pre-empt her like that; it would backfire. My muse is in charge here, not me. If I had been expecting anything specifically, I would have expected the trial in the next story after Medical Homicide, too, but she obviously had other ideas. She may have others down the road involving the trial that I don't know yet. I can pretty much guarantee that Patrick gets what's coming to him, but beyond that, I don't know blow-by-blow details or if that appears as a main part of a story.

So summary of a longish A/N: First, this AU is mine, and nobody else has or ever will have my permission to use it. Please respect my wishes on this. Second, about the trial, I don't know, but I'm not going to try to slap something together on my own efforts just to show the trial and throw it in without my muse's participation. For one, the time line would be wrong. For another, the few times I have ever tried writing without her holding the reins, it didn't work. To put it mildly. I don't know that we won't get the trial. I don't know that we will. But we won't get it in Three Cases, for certain. Patience is a virtue. :)

Enjoy the end of Sick Day, and thanks for all the reviews.

ItH

(H/C)

Cuddy flushed the toilet and stood back up with a slight groan. She was now well into the vomiting stage of the virus herself and felt utterly miserable, and her side was progressively hurting more. Rachel had thrown up once more, but Abby hadn't. Hopefully Abby would come off lightly with this. House still seemed the sickest of all of them, although definitely better in terms of pain than he had been. She looked at her watch - late afternoon - and wondered how a day spent basically doing nothing could be so exhausting. With a sigh, she turned to exit the bathroom.

The family was in the living room at this point, House and Rachel both stubbornly insisting that they'd had enough of bed. He was, of course, sprawled across the couch instead with his leg up, not in a much different position than he would have been in the bedroom, but she guessed lying down in a different room was some kind of masculine victory. Abby and Rachel were both on the couch with him, Abby actually on top of him, as was Belle, but all three of his "girls" were being conspicuously careful of him, and he noticed. She saw the shadow in his eyes as she re-entered the living room.

Wilson was sitting in the recliner. The oncologist had cleaned their entire house at this point in between dispensing more fluids and meds for everybody and keeping track of temperatures - House still highest but slowly coming down. Now Wilson was taking a break and had borrowed House's laptop. He had a worried frown between his eyes. "It says here that the chances of in utero transmission with a primary infection are much greater than secondary."

"Yep," House replied. "I already told you that."

Cuddy walked across the room. "Wilson, leave him alone. You'll have plenty of time to do research when he isn't sick."

Rachel immediately fired off her own supplemental command. "Leave him alone! Bad Wilson!"

House sighed and shook his head slightly. "I'm not going to break by answering a few questions, you two. It's just a virus." He trailed off, studying Cuddy as she came back to the couch. "You okay, Lisa?"

"Just a virus," she repeated, catching his own words and throwing them back at him.

"You're walking a little crooked."

She straightened up and hid the flinch. "My stomach is hurting. It goes along with the virus, plus I haven't exercised my throw-up muscles this much lately. To quote you, I'm not going to break." She picked up his head and sat down on the end of the couch, letting his head fall back gently into her lap. One hand unobtrusively brushed across the scar on his neck, trying to check his pulse. She knew the drugs should be wearing off on him soon.

He noticed, of course, and turned his head sharply, pulling away from her hand. Unfortunately, in his shifting, he bumped into the heat patch she had on her right side. So far, she had managed to keep him to her left. He immediately sat up, turning to raise her shirt.

Wilson looked up from his internet research. "Want me to watch the kids for a bit while you guys take a 'break'?"

"Shut up, Wilson," Cuddy snapped. "Greg, I'm fine." He finished working her shirt out from under her clamped-down arm and stared at the heat patch. "I thought it might help the nausea a bit," she tried. "I got one for me when I put one on your leg a while ago."

He shook his head firmly. "Stomach's more central and higher. That's more on the right side, and it's not because of nausea." He started running his hands along her side, and she flinched.

"I . . . think I pulled a muscle somehow. It's been bothering me all day, but it will get better. I'm sure the vomiting isn't helping much. It does feel better with the heat patch."

He studied her skeptically, not quite believing her words, then the blue eyes widened as he put it together. "Pulling me up from the floor this morning. You were moving a lot better before that, and that's about when the 'aches' started."

She sighed. "It's not your fault, Greg. You couldn't help it."

His eyes were glittering with annoyance now, annoyance with himself. He put the patch back on and lowered her shirt again, then shifted over to sit beside her - sitting down now, not stretching his leg out.

"Greg, you didn't mean to. And I'm sure the virus is making things worse."

He shook his head. "Should have been paying more attention. I'm sorry, Lisa."

Immediately, she leaned over and kissed him, ignoring the twinge in her side as she shifted.

Rachel and Abby had been watching this scene with interest, unsure now if they needed to worry about their other parent as well. Cuddy broke away from House and met two sets of concerned eyes. "I'm _fine_, girls. It's just a pulled muscle. Greg, stretch your leg back out."

"Mama okay?" Rachel asked.

"Yes. I'll be all better soon, just like the rest of us." Searching for a distraction, Cuddy seized Disney. "Why don't we watch the Aristocats?"

Rachel hopped off the couch and headed to get the movie. Abby was still looking at Cuddy, and House was looking away. Cuddy grasped his shoulders and pulled him back down, positioning his head carefully on her left leg. "It's okay, Greg. It's okay, Abby. Really."

Rachel returned with the movie, and Wilson put it in the DVD player. The entire House family, on the couch, settled down to watch, but House was still tense with perceived failure, and Abby and Rachel took longer to get absorbed in the movie than they usually did. Cuddy studiously watched it herself, trying to look perfectly all right to reassure her husband. The movie rolled on through about the first half when Rachel hopped off her father (carefully) to the floor. "Gotta go potty."

Wilson paused the cartoon. "Do you need to throw up, Rachel?" Cuddy asked.

Rachel shook her head. "Just potty." She headed back toward the bathroom.

Wilson stood up. "I'll help her; you guys stay put. That's good, at least. She's still keeping fluids going through." He disappeared down the hall, and Cuddy and House looked at each other with near identical assessing expressions, though different targets.

"You're bracing your side with your arm," he noted.

She pulled her arm away. "Makes it feel a little better. It's just a pulled muscle, Greg." Actually, she had noticed as the movie progressed that the muscle was grabbing her somewhat when she laughed now. She studied him. The skin around his eyes was tightened up again, and she could see the rising pain in his eyes. She took his pulse, not being subtle about it this time. "You need another shot, Greg."

"Maybe I could try a . . ."

"No. You haven't really kept down even ginger ale that well yet, and we don't want things to get out of hand again." Rachel and Wilson came back into the living room just then. "Wilson, would you go get some more medicine for Greg? Morphine and diazepam both."

Wilson ran a quick differential on House himself. "Right. Be right back."

"I don't need much," House protested. "Not like last time."

Rachel climbed carefully back on him and touched his leg gently. "Take 'cine, Dada."

House rolled his eyes up to look at Cuddy. "You _taught_ her that."

"I . . .didn't exactly teach her that. I just told her that sometimes you didn't want to take it when you should and got stubborn instead."

"And so she should ask me to. Because I'll do _anything_ for my daughters." The annoyance was rising again. "I can just see this, for the rest of my life, every other minute, they'll be trying to . . ."

"I _told_ her it doesn't always hurt so badly. She knows it's usually better than this. But tonight isn't the rest of your life, Greg."

He was still mad, she could tell. So could Abby, who, sitting on top of him and propped against the back of the couch, reached forward and touched his face. "Okay?" she asked.

"I'm fine," he snapped, then immediately looked guilty. "I apologize, Abby. I shouldn't have used that tone with you. I'm okay." He looked down at Rachel, who was starting to pat gently around his leg in her own quasi-exam.

Cuddy started to wonder herself if she'd overdone things with Rachel earlier. "Leave it alone, Rachel. Wilson went to get some more medicine; that's all he needs. Poking it won't help."

"She wasn't poking it," House noted. "She was being _very careful_. Since I'm so _fragile_, you know."

Wilson returned down the hall with two syringes and an alcohol pad. House sighed but held out his right arm without further resistance, and Rachel flinched in sympathy and Abby watched in interest as the needles plunged home. House slowly relaxed. "Anybody need a refill on the drinks before we start the show again?" Wilson asked. He checked glasses - Cuddy's mostly empty, House's mostly still full, the girls pretty well down their sippy cups - and took three out of four into the kitchen for refills.

House took another few sips of his ginger ale while the pain was down about as far as it was going to get. Wilson obligingly hadn't given him as much that time, not enough to knock him clear out, but he could definitely feel the effects of the drugs. His mind had scattered clouds drifting through it. He sighed and closed his eyes. In marked contrast to everything most people had believed of him over the years, he really did _not_ like feeling numbed out or having his thoughts slightly scrambled. His mind had been the one constant he could rely on, the one thing he had had control of through his childhood and on into adulthood, especially after the infarction. The whole reason he'd selected Vicodin, and he had indeed tried several other meds, is that it kept the pain tolerable, though sometimes barely, without interfering with the razor edge of his cognitive abilities. Anything else he had tried either did not work well enough or worked too well.

Cuddy stroked his hair lightly. "Is that better, Greg?" Even with his eyes closed, she could tell he was thinking and wasn't enjoying his thoughts that much. Not solely the girls finding out he had chronic pain, not at the moment, anyway.

"Mmm hmm. Terms of the leg, anyway." He sounded somewhat drowsy, but his tone still had an edge on it.

She kissed him again, a silent apology, and then stood up herself, gently moving his head over. "I think I'll take a trip through the bathroom too before you restart the movie, Wilson. And no, not to throw up." She returned a few minutes later, arm braced against her side again as she came back over to the couch.

House watched her, his slightly hazy thoughts trying to grasp onto something important. Puzzle pieces, albeit slightly fuzzy ones, clicking into place. He sat up, moving the girls over. "Lisa, I don't think this is a pulled muscle."

She dismissed the thought with a brisk shake of the head. "I first noticed it helping you up. It's been slowly focusing all day right along the muscles of the side."

"Nausea, vomiting, low grade fever, slowly localizing pain from general abdomen to right lower quadrant." He reached for her side again, fingers probing, and she jumped. "Lisa, I don't think you've got the virus, at least not in isolation if you do. I think you've got appendicitis."

"That's ridiculous. It's just a bug, same as the rest of you have."

"Why is that ridiculous?" he challenged. "You think it's impossible for you to get appendicitis? Or, let me guess, you haven't got time for it." He turned to the oncologist. "Wilson, come over here. Second opinion. Right along McBurney's point."

The oncologist stood up from his chair and came over, unable to resist a sideways apologetic glance at House, as if ensuring permission, as he reached for his best friend's wife. He palpated the relevant area, and Cuddy pulled back with a slight hiss of indrawn breath. "I really think he's right," Wilson confirmed. "They didn't take her appendix out when they did all that surgery last year?"

"You mean the emergency surgery while she was unstable and trying to bleed out?" House reminded him. "They were hardly thinking of 'while we're in the abdominal neighborhood anyway' procedures right then."

The girls had been watching this silently, eyes growing more and more concerned, but now Rachel couldn't keep quiet any longer. "Mama?

"I'm fine," Cuddy insisted. "Your father is just imagining things. . ." Probably even subconsciously to divert the attention and concern of his daughters off himself.

House cut her off, turning to his daughter. "Rachel, your mother is sick. Worse than any of us right now. She'll be fine, as long as she goes to the doctor tonight. But she's being stubborn and doesn't want to go. She needs to go to the doctor so she'll get well. They'll fix her right up there."

"That is _so_ unfair," Cuddy protested.

Rachel slid off the couch and trotted around her father to Cuddy, putting a hand on her arm. "Go doctor, Mama."

"Come on," House urged. "One ultrasound in the ER. That will be diagnostic. If I'm wrong, I'll wear a lab coat at work for the next 6 months. Isn't winning that bet worth an hour of your evening in the ER? And if I'm right, and this is early, they can try doing it laparoscopically. It's not exactly at the old surgery site; maybe adhesions wouldn't be bad enough just there to make them go to open. If they can do laparoscopic, you'll be home tomorrow morning and back at work in a week. Nothing to it." He stood up, wobbling at first, nearly overbalancing, and then catching himself on the cane. "Wilson, stay here with the girls. I'll take Lisa. . ."

The oncologist put a firm hand on his friend's arm. "House, you can't drive. Not with what I just gave you."

House looked so crestfallen, as if this, too, were a failure on his part, that Cuddy suddenly yielded, standing up and briskly taking charge. "He's right, Greg. You aren't safe to drive right now. Okay, I'll go to the ER, although I still think you're wrong. But the lab coat is worth proving that to you. Wilson drives, though. And we'll call Marina to come stay with the girls." She marched to the phone with her firm, administrative step, even if her arm was still braced against the pain in her side.

(H/C)

The ER was humming with weekend activity, the one point of the hospital more busy than during the week as the true emergencies were supplemented by people encountering cases of emergency sniffles - or the 24-hour stomach bug, which was indeed going around - and thinking they would die before their doctor opened in the morning. Cuddy was accelerated through the line, though. No point in having rank if you didn't pull it now and then, as House said. She lay in a cubicle now, House sitting down on one side of her, Wilson hovering but unable to find anything to do at the moment. "Greg, this is crazy," she insisted again. "It's just a pulled muscle crossed with a bug."

He looked at her. "I thought you trusted me at least medically," he said, unable to keep a bit of pain from showing through his tone. He still looked like he wasn't feeling close to well himself.

Cuddy sighed and squeezed his hand. "I do trust you, Greg. Medically _and_ personally. But you started thinking something more was wrong right after getting those extra meds. You _know_ they affect your thoughts a bit. I think you're chemically imagining things."

"And Wilson, too?" he asked.

The curtain pulled back, and the radiology tech entered with the portable ultrasound on a cart. "Good evening, Dr. Cuddy."

House glared at her. "If this were a _good_ evening, would we be spending it here?"

The tech ignored him, exposing Cuddy's lower abdomen and applying the gel. They all watched as the wand moved over her right lower quadrant. "Definitely appendicitis," the tech confirmed. "Not too inflamed yet, though. You caught it early; that's good." She stood up and handed Cuddy some tissues to wipe the gel off. "They'll get surgery in for a consult."

Cuddy closed her eyes. That couldn't be right. She _didn't_ have time for this. But the ultrasound, as House had said, was diagnostic. House. She opened her eyes again, looking at her husband in apology, but not a trace of "I told you so" was in his eyes. He squeezed her hand.

"They'll try it laparoscopic, Lisa. That's not that big a deal at all, much faster to get over. And I'll watch to make sure they do it right, won't let them go to open unless I agree there's no chance the easy way."

She sighed. "I'm sorry."

He kissed her deeply. "And _how_ is getting appendicitis your fault?"

"I mean not trusting you. Even drugged, you can diagnose circles around any other doctor on staff. This isn't how Christmas was supposed to go, though. We were trying so hard to make it different for you, to get some new replacement memories this year. This isn't quite what we had in mind."

"This _is _different, Lisa. We're together. And we'll still do the tree some time in a day or two when Rachel and I are well. You can supervise from the couch and administrate it. You'll be perfectly fine by Christmas itself. Today was already a loss from original plans even before this. And even at that, it _was_ a family day. Never had anything like that while I was growing up, not being together in spite of things, trust me. It _is_ a replacement memory." He lurched to his feet, catching his balance. "And we'll continue this conversation in just a minute after I go throw up." He pushed through the privacy curtain, heading for the nearby ER bathroom.

Cuddy gave a sad smile. Even being sick together as a family was a positive memory for him, a stark contrast to childhood. "Wilson, follow him, would you? Make sure he can get back up." The oncologist promptly answered the call of duty, exiting the cubicle himself. A couple with a small child in their arms was just following a nurse through the ER, and he hesitated to let them pass, noting the mutual concern, the physical and emotional closeness that was obvious. Those two, as well, were a family, even here in the ER. With a sigh, Wilson continued his trek to the bathroom to check on House.

(H/C)

House sat next to Cuddy's bed in the recovery area. The surgery had been like clockwork, a refreshingly routine case, just a few adhesions to dodge. They had done it laparoscopically, and now, he was waiting for her to wake up.

Wilson entered the long room and came over to Cuddy's bed, holding out a can of ginger ale and a small packet to House. His friend took the one and looked suspiciously at the other. "Zofran sample," Wilson stated. "My office is full of them. Merry Christmas."

House unwrapped the pill and swallowed. "Thanks. A gift with some real thought put into it; we'll mark this down under future memories to share, too."

"How is she?"

"Perfectly stable. Hasn't woken up yet, but she will soon." House tilted his head, looking at his friend. Even weak, slightly bloodshot, and slightly hazy, the blue eyes still had their diagnostic fire. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Wilson insisted. "Nothing new, anyway; consult your previous list."

House shook his head. "Uh uh. Something is definitely more wrong than it was 15 minutes ago when you left to go get me a drink. Let's see, not long enough time for a patient to die. Besides, your personal guilt index is even higher. Ergo, you called Sandra while you were up getting the Zofran from your office to update her. So something is more wrong with _her_ than it was before, and you just found this out. Let me guess; does she have the virus, too?"

Wilson sighed. "Why on earth do I ever try to avoid telling you things? It's just a challenge for you."

"So go home and be there for her."

"But you're sick yourself, and Cuddy just had surgery." The oncologist was definitely stuck between two opposing duties at the moment, being there for his friend versus hurrying home to try to be there for Sandra, to try to do _something_, even if minor, to make things easier for her after he had made them so impossibly more difficult.

"Routine surgery, not a hitch. And I'm starting to feel a little better than I was, definitely better than this morning. Really. And I'm also in the hospital with help all over the place if needed. I'll be careful, I promise, and not even enter bathrooms alone for a while. Scram, Wilson. You can actually do something to help her at the moment. Seize the day; it will help show her you still care."

Wilson studied his friend, gauging his sincerity. "Cuddy would kill me for leaving you alone here."

"I'm not alone, and the situation here is stable. Really, I'm okay with it. This isn't a crisis; it's just a pothole in the road. Go be there for Sandra."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I'd get up and give you a boost out the door, but I'm not quite feeling like physically evicting you yet. So save me the trouble and leave."

Wilson gave a relieved sigh. While he felt he _should_ be with House, he really did want to be with Sandra right now to try to help ease things for her. "Okay. But you have to tell Cuddy this was your idea."

"I will. You're too useful at times for me to let her kill you. And Wilson," House added as his friend turned toward the door.

The oncologist stopped, looking back. "Yes?"

House dropped the sarcasm. "Thanks for helping us out today."

Wilson smiled, feeling a little better suddenly. "You're welcome, House."

House sat there by Cuddy's side, holding her hand, his still slightly cloudy thoughts drifting through the past and the present. He hadn't been lying to Wilson, and that fact suddenly struck him as amazing. So many times through life, he had pushed people away, had lied about how he felt, but he wasn't right now. He really _was_ okay. Yes, he still felt sick; yes, tonight had been stressful; but he truly felt he _was_ okay and was dealing with it all as well as he could. It was still, as he'd told Cuddy, a good replacement memory. They had gone through the day _together_. He had a family and friends, a support system, and he had used it, but right now, he appreciated the private moment of introspection.

He was okay. He had handled a tough day and was coming out fairly sound on the other side. Even if he hadn't known Jensen was sick this weekend, too, though probably starting to feel better by now, he wouldn't have felt the need to disrupt the psychiatrist's evening with an emergency call to talk tonight. Other things he needed to talk about, yes, but nothing at this point tonight was an emergency. He was suddenly completely content, just sitting here watching his wife. Today had been a bad day, but there would be other good ones. _This_ was family. This was what he had now. The past was over, and his life was getting better.

House lifted Cuddy's hand to his lips and kissed the fingers lightly. "Thank you," he whispered.

(H/C)

Late that night, Cuddy opened her eyes again in her private room after a couple more hours of sleep. She remembered waking up briefly in recovery, House assuring her that the surgery had gone well and had been the minimally invasive procedure, but the anesthesia had still pulled her back down quickly into sleep. She definitely felt better now, though slightly sore. In fact, she felt better than she had all day, making her wonder if she had had the virus after all, as he'd said. Of course, if she hadn't, she might yet, but it was, as they'd been saying all day, just a virus.

House was asleep in the chair by her bed, his head lolled sideways, his leg stretched out straight, though not propped up. An acutely uncomfortable-looking position. She squeezed his fingers, which were still holding hers, and he quickly woke up. "Hi," she said.

"Hi. Feeling better?"

"Yes, I am. How are the girls?"

"I called Marina about three hours ago for another check and to tell them you were out of surgery and fine. Fevers down for both of them, and nobody has thrown up anymore. Abby actually had the lightest case of this." He grinned. "She's getting stronger, Lisa."

"Yes." She looked around the room, realizing suddenly who was missing. "Where's Wilson?"

"I sent him home. Sandra has the bug, too; probably picked it up at the hospital somewhere. He went to take care of her."

Cuddy frowned. "And left you alone here at the hospital when I'd just had surgery?"

"It was _my_ idea. He would have stayed. And I wasn't alone. Really, Lisa. I was okay with it."

She analyzed his gaze, but she couldn't find anything but truth there. He _did_ look like he was okay with it. "How are you feeling yourself, Greg?"

"Slowly a little better. Wilson gave me some Zofran samples he had in his office. I've had a can of ginger ale, and I took a Vicodin about 45 minutes ago. So far, it's staying down."

"Good." She shifted slightly in the hospital bed, exploring her abdomen with her hand. The incisions were tiny.

House saw the motion. "It was perfectly routine. You'll be released in the morning; could have been released tonight if it hadn't been so late when they started the procedure. You'll be back to work before you know it."

"Go home, Greg. You need a good night's sleep in a bed yourself so you can keep getting better."

He shook his head. "I'll stay here."

"Greg, you don't need to sleep in that visitor's chair. Your leg is bothering you enough today already."

He looked down. "I . . . I don't want to sleep in our bed alone. I know everything's okay now, but I just . . . I need to _see_ you right now. Just to keep reminding myself. I don't want to be apart tonight."

A surge of memory washed over her, remembering how last year, she couldn't abide the thought of leaving the hospital without him. "I understand. But still, you're going to kill your leg in that position." She wiggled over a bit gingerly in the hospital bed. "C'mere."

"You sure? You just had surgery."

"Routine, textbook surgery, like you said. Come on up, Greg."

Slowly he got to his feet and climbed in on her right side, being infinitely careful. They snuggled down against each other, the bandages and the IV suddenly not mattering. "It really is okay, Lisa," he said. "I wasn't lying earlier. This _is_ a replacement memory, and it's a good one. I'm not alone anymore."

She captured his hand again, squeezing it, tracing his gold wedding band. "I'm not, either. Thank you, Greg."

"Thank _you_."

The kiss was tender, gentle rather than passionate, both of them being careful at the moment, but it was somehow even more precious for that. Just lying next to each other at the end of a tough day was enough for the moment. She could tell he had a fever still, but it was lower than it had been. They were all right. Everything would be all right.

Her eyelids were drifting closed again, and she opened them. "Go on to sleep," he urged.

"Not until you do. Why are you fighting it yourself, Greg?"

He looked at his watch. "In five minutes, it will be midnight. I wasn't kidding; this day will be a good memory. But still, I'm kind of glad to see it end. We can do a lot better than this one, Lisa."

She laughed and flinched as the incisions pulled slightly. "A _lot_ better," she agreed. "Okay, Greg, we'll watch the rest of the day out together."

He held his watch where they both could see it, and in silent companionship, they counted the seconds down. Midnight. The day was over.

Cuddy relaxed and closed her eyes, feeling the reassuring presence of her husband next to her. "Good night, Greg."

She heard the smile in his voice, one of his private smiles, one of the ones just for her and the girls. "Good night, Lisa."

Together, they slept.


End file.
